


Iris and Hyacinth

by oblivioluna



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Etiquette, Blood and Gore, Dark Lauren Sinclair, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Doctor! Lauren, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone isn’t that Good, F/M, Flower Symbolism, La Croix Flavor Angst Levels, La Croix Flavored Spice, Leader! Kieran, Moral Ambiguity, The APD Sucks, Trauma Recovery, Villain/Villain Romance, Who’s been messing up everything? It’s Been Luna All Along, dark content, extremely unethical uses of science, i’m serious about this, morally gray characters, so do capitalist and monarchical structures, this isn’t your grandmother’s luna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oblivioluna/pseuds/oblivioluna
Summary: It is XX27. Ardhalis has not recovered from the Allendale Train Station Tragedy as well as it would like to.Lauren Sinclair, in the wake of the death of her childhood love and her parents, has long since let go her dream of vengeance engraved on the shine of bullets and guns - or so she thinks. As All Saints Hospital’s most efficient and talented healer, she lives out the unrealized dream of a boy she once knew, saving lives one day at a time, earning her the title of the city’s most valued asset among the medical field.At least she is until one day, the rebellion group Phantom Scythe takes an interest to her, and brings them to their Leader, Kieran White, in a twist of events. What happens next is a series of unprecedented revelations, discoveries, and unforeseen circumstances - for she may be his answer, and he hers.Divided, they are enemies.United, they are powerful beyond measure.
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, Rafael Hawkes/Belladonna Davenport, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell
Comments: 32
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** This story is entirely canon divergent, and in the Purple Hyacinth chronological timeline, cuts off after November 13th, XX17 completely. Additionally, I will not be coordinating I&H's lore with Scheherazade and CUC's, instead, all worldbuilding will be drawn from my own invention, and several pieces of media. The four most notable influences are Bloodborne, Crimson Peak, Fullmetal Alchemist, and Black Lagoon.

_“All students pursuing the medical track at Ardhalis University must commit to the same oath upon their entry. They swear, calling upon Apollo the physician and Asclepius, Hygeia and Panaceia and all the gods and goddesses as witnesses, that they will fulfill their oath and this contract according to their ability and judgment. But I ask this of the leaders and administrators of such a practice now: what to do when there is no witness to be found? What to do in times as desperate as these when the stench of death and sickness crowds every forsaken corner of this city? What to do when the deities we have invoked for centuries leave? Will we teach the difference between an easy choice and a hard one? I say there is a better option between the two, and this is the one most find it the most difficult to bear. That, my colleagues, is what we should be teaching.”_

**_-Emilio Sergio di Bianci, Head Physician and Dean of Associate Affairs, speaking at an Ardhalis University conference during the Blood Plague of XX01_ **

____

She can smell it.

Not the daisies, no, but another scent altogether. Something like warm cinnamon and sugar. It isn’t supposed to smell this way, not with where she is at the moment. But it permeates, sticks to the taut back of her tongue, the dry stillness of the air around her winding around her like a ghost. In a circle are the barren leaves of the trees, crunching under her bare feet. She isn’t sure exactly how tall she is - either grown like a woman or short like a child - but above her, the birds laugh. The willows weep for the loss of the boy in front of her. He’s gone. She can’t find him. The fog spills everywhere, the dreary sky above a dull gray. 

“Dylan!” she shouts.

No one answers.

The scent of sugar grows stronger as she closes her eyes, feeling her own lashes flutter against her skin. She knew better than to expect an answer. She hasn’t received an answer in centuries. The only difference between then and now is that she knows how to wake herself up, yank herself out of crudely-spun fantasies; with a tug of her arm against her leg, a sore sensation spreads throughout her skin from the pain inflicted on her index and thumb pinching her calf.

When her eyes snap open, it takes a while to readjust to reality. Blurry at first, then clear. A mug in front of her, smelling lovely. Papers littered on a desk. A face staring at her own. Sharp mint. Honeyed locks spun into a bun and darker skin. 

“Agatha?” she murmurs.

“Lauren,” Agatha reprimands, gently. She rolls her eyes, smirking a bit. “You fell asleep again.”

That’s enough for Lauren to shoot straight up, letting out a sharp bark of pain as stiffness crawls up her neck. Her bun is messed up, auburn trodden all over her pale cheeks. In the break room, the other occupants laugh, and she shoots them a sheepish smile, rubbing at her neck. “How long was I out?”

“An hour. Didn’t want to wake you. You were doing research, but the ink’s smeared all over your notes now - don’t pay attention to that, now, take this,” she says, hoisting the mug in front of her closer to her face. “Chai with an extra something. Better than that coffee you drink like water. I’ll receive your clients.” 

“You and I both know I don’t have clients,” she grumbles.

Agatha winks anyway. “I know. Thought a joke would wipe that scowl off your face.”

“I don’t have a _scowl.”_

“It’s growing wider.”

Lauren groans, loudly. Agatha continues speaking, waving her hands in the air. “It’s that look. We’ve all deemed it the Thinking Face. It turns into a very bad frown when you’re rudely awoken from your short slumbers.”

“And you woke me up anyway,” she says, turning to gather up her books, but the other physician slams her hand on the table.

Lauren scrunches her face up indignantly, frowning. “Agatha, I have to--!”

“None of that,” the doctor replies, snapping on a set of black gloves. “Clean up. You’re five hours from leaving All Saints. I’ll take care of the rest while you pick yourself up from that desk.”

“There’s a transfusion in three.”

“Which I’ll have the assistants aid you with.” Agatha nods towards the upper floors of the hospital. “Go take your evening break and come back when you’re called. No buts about that. You’re one of the best; I’d hate to see a girl like you drop dead from the old Crimson herself. _Go.”_

____

To be honest, All Saints Hospital looks more like a university campus than a hospital. But it makes sense; it’s Ardhalis’s biggest medical center besides the one for students and doctors alike at the actual medical studies campus at the actual local university. The large clock on the tower yards away from her chimes the time as low pink light spills over the heights of the spires and dark pointed roofs extending up to the sky. The sun’s nearly hidden by one of the higher-up buildings, but all of the hospital is a faded beige-gray all at once, with ogival arches and flying buttresses on the eastern and western wings. Winter is soon, and she can feel it as she wraps her gray trench tighter around herself, leaning against one of the arches on the top balcony. Below her, the chatter of people can be heard, in white and red coats both. All devoted to the Craft. It humors her a bit, the dark circles and exhausted expressions they all share. Sure, the pay and the benefits of the job are good, but the hours are ungodly, and some of the patients they serve are rather torturous beings.

She pops another berry in her mouth, feeling the wind pink her cheeks. If she closes her eyes, and concentrates, she can hear the faint hymn of a song drifting from the nearby chapel in the neighboring precinct. The 11th precinct’s put up signs for the weekly church gathering this week, and charity gatherings alike. Her people are all the same, come with more donations than they usually do out of ‘interest’ for the poor and with vials of clean blood that the ones who can donate can spare. It disgusts her, a bit, the show acting. They’d never done this before the sickness hit. But now the city’s on the verge of tipping, and so they act like angels. 

Last week, the Abelles had donated ten thousand pounds to All Saints and the local chapel both. Registered as donors. She knows they don’t mean it. They just want a place in line when the vaccine comes, and don’t care if they have to trod on the toes of the needy to get it.

_“O Love that wilt not let me go,_

_I rest my weary soul in Thee;_

_I give Thee back the life I owe…”_

She looks down at the blueberry in her hand. Lauren swirls it around a bit, watching bits of black and purple stick to her palm.

_“That in Thine ocean depths its flow_

_May richer, fuller be.”_

Organs had belted out the exact same song ten years prior, in the midst of funeral pyre smoke. Tristan and the rest of the male Sinclair relatives had carried the caskets of Alexander and Rachel Sinclair into the ground.

_“My heart restores its borrowed ray,_

_That in Thy sunshine’s blaze its day_

_May brighter, fairer be.”_

Lauren grabs the berry in between her index and thumb. She could crush it. And a few years back, she would’ve without hesitation. When a gun was easier to carry than a syringe, and it wasn’t a load of textbooks that weighed down her desk, but instead a board on her walls, red thread spooled through the edges, connecting the pictures, the cracks in her life wide as abysses.

But restraint is something a healer learns first, and the second is patience.

She tosses it in her mouth and bites down, hard.

_“I lay in dust life’s glory dead,_

_And from the ground there blossoms red.”_

Wind waves her scarf in the air as she begins to walk down to the infirmary, shoes clicking on marble. There’s no use in listening to the rest of the hymn. She knows the rest of it by heart.

“And from the ground there blossoms red,” she murmurs under her breath, a low warble, for she’s never been an artist, “life shall there ever be.”

On cue, a scream echoes.

____

Marie Lyanna Kestis is fifty-four, and has succumbed to a fever.

Lauren’s flying into the hall before anyone can rush her out, snapping on black gloves and covering the lower half of her face with a matching color mask. Based on the symptoms, it doesn’t look as if the woman has - as Agatha put it, dear old _Crimson_ \- because if she had, she’d most likely be dead. Kestis was brought into the critical care ward twenty minutes ago, and left attended but with no urgent medical care yet. The reason being Lauren and the rest of the team need to prepare. And if she indeed had the symptoms of the sickness, Kestis would’ve succumbed to a lower form of organ shutdown, with the rest of her body refusing to work due to the bloodborne illness moving through her system.

“We’ve most likely got a case of hemophilia,” she announces to the physicians falling in step beside her. “Did the head say anything?”

“No, but you’re probably right,” says another. “Anthony is already on the scene. If Kestis’ blood is compatible with the donor we received this morning, we can work a transfusion quick.”

“How much has she lost?”

“A lot,” a blonde says to her right, grimly. “Brace yourself.”

Lauren’s mouth carves into a sarcastic scowl. “I’ve seen worse things.”

The curtain sweeps open.

Marie lets out another shriek. Anthony is hard at work attempting to close the wound. Lauren’s mind goes into tunnel mode the second the stream of physicians and her enter the room: there is a fifty/fifty chance this woman will die in an hour. Her stomach has been stabbed, perhaps by a knife, and there is gushing red everywhere, turning blood on the white sheets. She’s panicking, but one physician already has the anesthesia ready. The pulse thrumming below her skin suggests she’s only worsening the problem with her panic, as well as her fever. A light flu, then. Two deadly combinations if proper medicine isn’t administered.

“Bring her desmopressin!” she says, waving to one nurse. “I need to stop the flow temporarily before we administer a transfer!”

Anthony gives her a nod of appreciation when she brings over bandages, replacing the soaked ones with new ones. It’s no use, though, and she curses when the fresh ones turn just as crimson as the others. There’s too much. She can’t--

_Focus. Focus._

_You thought you were going to shoot through every problem at one point, and now you’re here._

_Focus._

“Paracel.”

“What?”

“I need a Paracel!” she yells, and one figure comes charging through the swarm of doctors. If Marie loses too much before the transfusion, or doesn’t respond to the treatment well, she could develop a worse condition. In her gut, Lauren knows even steroids or additional plasma won’t work unless they close the wound. Red swims in front of her vision, and her fingers are bloody as she gestures to the man in front of her. He’s wearing identical clothing to her - coat, gloves, mask - and the only difference being the color of the coat. It’s what distinguishes the alchemists from the doctors. 

“How fast can you whip up a spagryic?” A lock of auburn falls in front of her face, and she resists the urge to re-do her normally neat bun that pulls all her hair back. “I need it compatible with Type A blood.”

“It wouldn’t take long,” reassures the alchemist, and the swarm of doctors grows louder in chatter. Marie has gone silent, and the blood flow from her wound has lessened, but it doesn’t mean they’re in safer territory. Lauren turns back to him, panic climbing up in her throat. 

“Do it now.”

He nods, and without further questions, pulls out vials from his coat. She recognizes most of the chemicals: porcine, advate, recombinant. And the elements: sulfur, water, iron. With a needle, he injects the three methodically into a vial of advate, the four combing together to form a viscous, almost honey-like substance. She thanks him profusely, grabbing the solution from his hands, at the same time the transfusion machine is rolled in.

“Move aside,” she barks, because there are no time for pleasantries and Marie’s breath has started weakening, and watches as the blood bags are loaded in, the tubes inserted with care into the skin. Anthony’s eyes widen as she uncaps the spagryic, holding up a hand.

“Lauren, it won’t hold, not for this sort of flesh wound--”

“The advate will,” she blurts out, and pours it over the wound, before anyone else can have a chance to touch it. It’s already been sanitized, and heaven forbid the patient suffer internal disease even if this does work. The second the solution touches skin, it rushes to solidify, forming a second skin over the wound. Blood begins to seep through, but Lauren bites on the inside of her cheek as the advate goes to work, the powder a white frieze of smoke. 

It only takes a few seconds before the blood flow stops.

Lauren clutches the side of a cart, nearly suffocating in her mask.

“Quick thinking,” one doctor says, clearly relieved. So are the others. Everyone is. It brings her own blood rushing to her head, pleasure hitting like a truck. Praise shouldn’t be more effective than any drug on her system at this point, but it is. 

_The prodigal daughter of Ardhalis._

“Alright, everyone. I and three nurses will handle Mrs. Kestis’s case,” Anthony announces. “Attend your stations, and come if called, but for now - you’re off-duty.”

  
  


____

It was strange, at first.

The transition from literally working as a pathogens and disease physician, handling more gore and blood than most could stand, to arriving home at odd hours to welcome and laughter as if she’d just come back from a heroic conquest rather than literally putting her mind and life on the line.

She’s gotten used to it. All the upper class families coo and rave about her like a sweetheart, nudging their others daughters and sons about the _rather intelligent and beautiful Sinclair daughter._ Suitors both male and female placed in front of her like pick and choose meals. Gifts worth their weight in gold. She refuses all of them and picks only a few to date. They don’t last, they never have. Lauren isn’t ready to admit after ten years that the smells and sounds of a hospital are where she feels comfortable now, instead of a warm house filled with sound or a gun range outside a stoic, blocky building.

But tonight’s New Years’, and she has duties.

And, despite all her antisocial tendencies, two friends.

They cry cheers of welcome when she descends the stairs, and she shoots them all a polite smile. Her bun is now intact, with a low-set daisy over one ear. Gold earrings dangle her lobes, and she wears a dress with capped sleeves and elegant neckline, a starched velvet green sash wrapped around her waist. All ivory satin and Brussels lace, with patterns of brambles and thorns. Her smile grows wider when she sees Tristan, looking at her with nothing short of affection, and then practically stretches into a full-on grin as she catches sight of two certain figures.

They’re here.

What an absolute relief from all these _shitty_ people.

“I don’t think I have to make much of an announcement,” she says, raising her flute as she reaches the bottom step, as they all wait for her own speech. “It’s the verge of a new year. Enjoy yourselves at our home.”

A loud holler of joy comes from the guests, and they all move in different directions, chatting amongst themselves loudly. Tristan clasps her hand, eyes peeking behind spectacles. He’s in black tonight, contrasting well with his graying brown hair.

“Everything alright tonight?” he murmurs, smiling a bit, but it’s tinged with worry. 

“My patients are fine. Don’t worry. I’ll ward off any nosy mothers,” she says easily, laughing a bit.

“Good.” The Chief of Police nods. “You look lovely tonight, Ren. You have her eyes, you know.”

Lauren dips her head shyly. “I know.”

“Ah. Those two are probably cursing me out for keeping you,” he says, laughing a bit as he catches sight of a woman in a tightly-cut blue dress suit and a blonde man in white. “Go on, then. Give my regards to the Captain.”

“I will!” she exclaims behind her, trying her best not to run. It doesn’t work. Once she’s in close proximity to the buffet table, groaning under the weight of shellfish and liquor and desserts, a blur of sapphire collides with her chest, draped in pearls and smelling like roses. 

“Oh, _Doctor,”_ Kym Ladell moans, throwing a hand over her forehead. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten sick.”

“You don’t have the sickness, do you?” Lauren jokes, giggling as she dips the shorter woman. “What seems to be the trouble, dear patient?”

“I am heartbroken. Heartbroken! From…” One hazel eye cracks open. “Being away from you too long.”

“I’m literally just standing here,” mutters William Hawkes, sipping champagne.

“Aw, Captain, are you jealous?” Kym teases, nudging him with an elbow, looping an arm over Lauren’s shoulders. “She missed you too.”

“I did.” Lauren cups a hand over his cheek, and he blinks in surprise. He’s grown, her Will, blonde hair swept back neatly and ocean eyes that sweep the room keenly. “I missed both of you. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.”

“It’s because of that - god - awful - _Crimson Death,”_ Kym says, accentuating each word as she grabs Will with a shriek leaving the captain’s mouth. All three of them knock heads, back in the familiar routine they’ve developed over the years. But there’s genuine worry as Kym looks over at her, the lieutenant’s face filled with worry. “You’ve taken precautions, right? You wear masks? Sanitation isn’t exactly on the Council’s damn mind--”

“We always wear masks. It’s protocol, and we’d be stupid if we didn’t,” Lauren says, huffing a hair out of her face. “The illness is bloodborne. In the richer districts such as these, there are virtually no cases. I was anxious about a party, but Uncle told me all the guests - including you two - have been tested for the fever.”

“It’s spreading in the lower districts,” Will says grimly, holding a hand to his mouth in contemplation. “I’ve consulted with the 5th and 6th precinct, but no official reports have been given.”

“They’re not disclosing reports because they don’t want news to get out and a panic to set in,” Lauren bites out.

“You’re a doctor. A disease physician, at least - you couldn’t contact the Royal College--”

“Hey, I don’t have that type of power, unlike a certain Captain,” Lauren jokes, sidling up to Will. “You have that sort of faith in this lady?”

“I’ve had faith in ‘this lady’ ever since we were ten, and I was proven right,” Will says, tipping his chin up. 

At ten, at least. At twelve, definitely. That was when everything had changed.

She remembers it all - that moment when she and Will began to diverge paths. He didn’t question why she dropped out of the officer program at the Academy without a word, and she didn’t question why even after he’d said he was content with being an officer, he began to climb the ranks of sergeant, lieutenant, and more. And as of two weeks ago, now the APD’s newly minted Captain Hawkes, with a lieutenant by his side. The two act like they hate each other, but she knows better. Way better.

If only she could inject a common sense vaccine into their veins. Then maybe she wouldn’t have to barge in on them having unbearable sexual tension three out of four times a week when she did visit the APD.

“It’s almost time,” Kym says enthusiastically, waving a finger in a direction opposite Lauren’s. “They’re setting up the fireworks!”

“Okay, okay - Ladell, I swear to the gods if you drag me along--”

“You’re coming with, and no brooding by the buffet table, even if those cream puffs look good--”

“You’re driving me insane, I swear--”

_“I’m_ going insane,” Lauren drawls, rolling her eyes as she grabs both of them by the scruff, dragging them to the balcony. “Are you two going to kiss tonight, or do I have to stand alone on the balcony?”

Both of them turn a matching beet red, and begin to splutter, coming up with various excuses. She resists the urge to get a migraine here and there, and continues hauling them up the staircase, Will grabbing Kym’s hand by accident. She spots them staring at each other with eyes as wide as saucers, but neither of them get the chance to say anything as showers of red and gold and blue explode in the sky, lighting up the dark.

The banners waving XX28 wave in the air, and as of 12:00 pm tonight, it has come true.

It seems their desire to not kiss has eclipsed any and all arguments they might carry out tonight, because Lauren settles back into their embrace, all three of them holding each other in the night air as the fireworks shower rain upon the city that still has a long, long way to go.

And for a second - just a second - she can forget the weight of blood and death and grief on her shoulders, and breathe easy.

____

The following week starts on a Tuesday, and it doesn’t begin with a patient.

It begins with a meeting.

_“Lauren!”_ The blonde from yesterday pops her head into the women’s lockers. “Someone in the northern wing wants to meet with you. A relative of Kestis. Says they want to send their regards.”

She winces as she tugs the elastic on her bun, the leather on her black gloves straining. “I have a meeting in five.”

“Apparently, Anthony wants you to see to this meeting first.”

“Did he--” If the Head Physician wants her there, this must be important. Marie had made it through the night, and will be discharged within the week, but she isn’t sure why such a meeting with a relative of a patient would be that important. “Did he say why?”

“Apparently there are some very important guests who would like to meet you.”

_Important guests._ Her mind goes back to a church hymn and crowds of wealthy citizens. “Sure. I’ll head in.”

“Great.” She winces at Lauren’s appearance. “Oh, and lose the coat. And gloves.”

“What?”

The door slams shut.

When she arrives in the northern wing, two sharply pointed arches act as doorways to enter the main section of the waiting room, or parlor. Underneath the coat she wears nothing but a simple red sweater and trousers, and she fiddles with the simple gold necklace at her throat. No one’s here at all, and she roams the long hallway leading down the parlor before finding two couches across from each other with a coffee table in between. Strangely enough, someone has left two mugs of steaming hot coffee there - alongside a plate of sugar cookies, rainbow sprinkles dancing lights in the air.

She doesn’t sit. She breathes harshly, and steps away from food that could be poisoned. But as if on cue, the doors slam shut behind her. And so do the open windows. Out of nowhere, men in black suits and black ties appear like wraiths, standing guard around escape places. Lauren bites down on a scream as a gloved hand claps her shoulder behind her, hard.

“Sit down,” a raspy female voice commands.

She sits. 

And waits.

For what feels like centuries, and her skin starts to crawl with gooseflesh. Everything had been going fine, but now she’s trapped in a parlor room by mysterious men - guards - and doesn’t dare to look at their faces. If they injure any of the patients - if they injure any of the doctors - she’ll act. She hasn’t been trained in combat, and no longer knows the ways of a gun, but she will _fight._

_Fight?_ A voice that hasn’t arisen for three years laughs menacingly in her head. _For selfless reasons? Doctor, don’t kid yourself. You know what you’re here for, and that’s for one reason only._

_Shut up._

Lauren exhales harshly as one door behind her slams open, then shut. A pair of footsteps - heavy, male - coming her way. She braces for the worst. Expects a knife at her throat. A bullet to the heart. She is a healer, not by nature, but knows which ways hurt the most. If she twisted now, it would aim true, and she wouldn’t feel the pain--

He sits down before her, and she forgets to breathe out of fear.

He’s in all black, like his men, but the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and he wears a long coat rolled up his forearms, and long-laced boots. He’s sharp angles, all deathly beautiful colors, raven-black and ebony and tan skin, with turquoise eyes that stare her down. His hair is tied back in a messy knot, strands artfully framing his brow. She smells something musky and spicy, like woodsmoke, and when he grins, she resists the urge to shrink back. For what perches ever-so languidly before her like a housecat is a predator of predators, a wolf amongst men, who knows death like she does, and that is a fearsome thing to behold indeed.

“Lovely to meet you, doctor,” he says, the undercurrent of a purr in his rich voice. “Kieran White. I’m rather indebted to you for healing my Apostle, wouldn’t you agree?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, this is a far cry from my usual fare. "Iris and Hyacinth" is one of those unusual ideas that simply sprung from my head fully formed and stoked my writing fires - and wouldn't stop until I'd fleshed it all out. This is my most immersive, most-researched AU - and, as you can tell regarding my tags, the darkest. I am going to warn you here and now: _pay attention to all the tags and future individual chapter triggers._ If you cannot handle the content warnings, this story is not for you. This AU does not exist to break morale, or to put characters through torture porn, but does bend a lot of the canon, and lives up to the morally gray tags. The M rating as well is mainly for violence, so don't expect explicit content, but...you'll see. I am also taking as much nuance and care with the themes of this fic as well as I can, so if you do wish to have any tags added, let me know.
> 
> Ah, that sweet sweet 23 chapter count. I am not sorry for the rollercoaster I am about to put you on. Expect the unexpected. Prepare for the worst. Anticipate victory. And grab your popcorn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Discussions of mental health topics. Include anxiety, depression, and mentions of intrusive thoughts. Proceed with caution. Love, Luna.

_“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone._

_I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One._

_I give ye my Spirit, `til our Life shall be Done._

_You cannot possess me for I belong to myself_

_But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give_

_You cannot command me, for I am a free person_

_But I shall serve you in those ways you require_

_and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.”_

**_-Ancient Hibyerian Binding Vow, in the year -XX10_ **

____

She’s twelve, and the world has gone up in flames.

At least, that’s what she can see in front of her. Barely the flames, even, because it’s all a blur of red and scarlet and gold eating up the wreckage and corpses they keep dragging out. The rain has started to fall, and the sounds of sirens are like war drums in her ears as her mother holds her tighter, tears wetting the gentle fabric of her dress. Rachel smells like home, and so does Alexander, as they wrap their arms around their daughter, shielding her from the worst.

But it doesn’t matter.

She’s already walked through death and seen its effects firsthand.

So she does not cry for the living; she cries for the dead, and the ones she loves now lost to its clutches.

____

She’s twelve, and only weeks later does home stop smelling like home.

Rachel’s shawl has lost its perfume, but Lauren still cradles it to her chest, balling up the light blue fabric of it and pressing her nose to it. She’s curled up to the window when Tristan finds her like that, dressed in black like she is. The ribbon in her hair sags as she does, both of them dimly lit figures by the Ardhalis rain pouring outside Sinclair Manor. The funeral rites will be performed soon, and the chatter of guests can be heard downstairs. The graveyard will be a distance from here, and the procession will continue throughout the 11th precinct. The Sinclairs were well-known, after all. Horse and buggy carriages mull outside, waiting to carry the bodies. 

If she squeezes her eyes shut, and concentrates, she can smell the ghost of flowers.

“Lauren,” Tristan says gently. “It’s time to go. Will is waiting, too.”

No response.

“It’s my fault,” she says, after a while. “Isn’t it?”

Tristan’s face contorts, and he looks as if he’s relived the deaths of his brother and his wife over again. “Lauren, it - how could you think that, sweetheart, it’s hardly your fault at all--”

“I was scared. I didn’t want them to leave. And they would’ve stayed home that day, and they would’ve listened to me, but Dad always told me to be a brave girl, and I let them go anyways--” She continues rambling, clutching the cloth tighter, shaking her head until the tears finally come, sparkling in the light, dripping down her cheeks, “--so I should’ve begged them harder, it was my fault, it was my fault…”

“No, no. It’s not your fault at all,” Tristan says in a rush, scooping her up off the windowsill and holding her close to his chest as she finally collapses into sobs, releasing the grief she’d kept inside her, begging to be released for weeks. “It’s not your fault. It’s - it’s not mine, either,” he forces out. “It isn’t anyone’s. Death happens, and none of us can stop it. No one can. What matters is how we deal with it after.”

“I miss them,” she cries, hiccuping a bit. “I miss them so much.”

“I miss them too, Ren,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. “I miss them too.”

____

She’s thirteen, and doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life.

Ardhalis’s education system is standardized throughout the country, which means that every student from the age of five onwards goes through the same program until eighteen: twelve years of schooling from elementary to upper collegiate, until when students graduate having specialized in a track of study. There are three options onwards from that - attend a university, apply to a focus of study at a college, or join a governmental program; either the police force or law enforcement. She’d chosen the political track at the age of eleven, but it’s been two years, and she’s three months past three deaths, and everything has changed.

“Miss Sinclair,” the teacher calls behind her. “A word, please?”

Lauren bites on her lip, tasting mint from the gum she’d chewed earlier, and turns around to walk back to Professor Hastings. Her Ecole de Beaux Rêves uniform is unusually rumpled, dark navy and gold buttons utterly ruined, and the bow around her neck is loose around her shoulders. In addition to that, her auburn hair is an absolute mess, barely reaching her shoulders and sharply cut. Hastings looks up at her with a vivid mixture of sympathy and directness, clutching papers in his hand. Somewhere, the bell chimes for afternoon recess, and she knows the other private school students will be playing around on the lawn below her, kicking balls into the ivy winding up the brick work of the tall, castle like walls of the school, or chasing each other around the lawn. Tristan’s not going to be happy about this. And she can already tell what her professor’s about to say.

“This is your third 55 in a month,” he says, taking off his glasses. Dark eyes meet her own. “You’ve never performed this poorly, Miss Sinclair.”

She grits her teeth together. “I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t paying attention during classes, either, which I suspect is one factor out of many contributing to your academic achievement. Or lack thereof.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Miss Sinclair, this isn’t like you.”

_“I’m sorry.”_

If Hastings notices her shaking like a leaf in the wind, furiously gripping her skirt to prevent another wave of tears, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the dark-skinned man leans back, tipping his spectacles up. 

She wonders how many students in this building over the years have tipped gleefully into the pit of grief despite being told not to. Despite being held back. Because how sweetly the waters beckon, how they drown everything else, numb the pain out. Paying little attention is better than paying too much. Discarding everything else and losing yourself in the clouds, swirling empty air around your bruised knuckles, is a better reprieve than seeing fire in your face over and over in your nightmares and daydreams. 

“I am going to inform your uncle about this,” he says slowly, “but I know you’re one of my best. And I think a therapist would prove beneficial as well.”

Lauren resists the urge to snort. Some good a therapist could do.

They don’t understand that she knows what happened. She _knows._ She was _there._ She doesn’t want to talk about it.

Instead, she would very much like to scream about it more, punch something until her knuckles came out bloody instead of bruised, and the air was knocked out of her instead.

She feels like she could shatter at any minute.

She wants to shatter.

She wants to grab her own hand and smash it against her chest, so that maybe she will.

“I lost my mother at the age of seventeen,” Hastings says after she’s done putting herself through the equivalent of a meat grinder, and that’s when Lauren’s mind actually does go quiet. Regret swells up in her. “I know what it’s like. You’d very much like to break until you feel nothing. But trust me when I say that leaves you emptier than you were before.”

She doesn’t speak - she can’t, at the moment.

Her teacher sighs, sliding a card across from him. “Please, Lauren. There is a spark in you that begs to be lit. Don’t toss it out.”

____

She’s sixteen, and something changes.

“I got back on the Dean’s List.”

“That’s wonderful, Lauren!” Tristan exclaims, putting down his napkin gingerly. A maid comes to sweep away their plates, now bare with the remnants of lemon tart and sticky blueberry crumble dessert. “I’m so proud of you. I know how much the program means to you, so I’m glad to hear you’re doing better.”

“That’s not all,” she teases, sweeping back her ponytail. “An invitation to the Academy. I’ve scored an early letter - an acceptance, if I’ll have them. They want me in. My marksmanship scores and combat skills are flawless in their eyes.”

The Chief of Police is left speechless. And then the oddest thing happens. 

He starts crying.

Lauren suddenly feels very, _very_ awkward as he crosses the wide dinner table, passing the candelabras and fruit plates and all to crush her in a hug, and she reciprocates after a moment’s hesitation, holding him tighter. Gray hairs have started to poke through her uncle’s sandy hair, and she has a momentary stab of panic in her chest. Her mother and father’s red hair had never turned this gray. Maybe life will be so cruel as to claim her uncle from her now that he’s--

_No._

_Whenever they come, let them drift away,_ her old therapist’s voice echoes in her head. _Let them come, and then go._

Really, if it hadn’t been for that woman, Lauren would probably be in an even worse state than she is now. Not that she’s of perfectly content mind and body, no; the desire for _something_ hasn’t left her mind ever since she was twelve. But the worst - the storm - has passed, at least. At thirteen, she’d been officially diagnosed with anxiety and depression disorder, in addition to complicated grief disorder. It explained the constant panicking and the constant pits she fell into daily. It also explained the bitterness she couldn’t seem to let go of and the thoughts that constantly sliced wounds into her head, leaving her shaking and shuddering on the floor of her bedroom, suffering silently.

_I take nothing and I grieve everything._

Now, she isn’t sure if she’s let go completely.

“You...er, don’t need to cry about it,” she says, laughing nervously. “I get you’re proud of me.”

“It’s so much more than that, Ren,” Tristan says, wiping away tears as he bends down to make eye contact with her, cupping her face as he smiles. “I’m just so happy for you. I’m so happy you aren’t lost. You found something again and made it count.”

_You aren’t lost._

She forces a smile on her face. “I know. It’s been a while. But I have to keep going, right?”

“That’s the spirit.” He smoothes her hair, stroking it sweetly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

_You aren’t lost._

She isn’t. Not anymore.

But standing in the same place now that she’s out of the woods is not being found. It is worse.

When the night is over, she’s pulled by exhaustion to her room. Does her nightly routine: washes up, tugs on her white nightgown, lets go her hair, turns off all the lamps. But it doesn’t stop her from staring at a barren board hitched up by her bed, almost taunting her with its blankness. Lauren tugs a rolled-up newspaper out of her office desk and flattens it out, watching the words fly in front of her.

_SINCLAIRS DIE IN TRAGIC CAR ACCIDENT, DATED XX17. LE JOURNAL EDITION 130._

Almost on impulse, she raises it to the board, and pins it there with a thumbtack she’d found.

Lauren drops the tack, however, and it goes falling to the floor. She falls to her knees, scrambling for it - and comes to a halt.

In front of her is a spool of red thread.

____

She’s eighteen and at a crossroads.

“You’re going easy on me,” Will says, grinning. In the sunlight, he’s all easy grace and conducted manners. Swoon-worthy lashes and golden hair swept over his brow, tall and lithe and handsome at nineteen. They run around the Academy track, kicking up dust as they do, both of them in white shirts and loose pants. Mirror images of two prodigal children. HAWKES 13 and SINCLAIR 17. They stick to each other like glue and eat all the other students up with gaping maws and don’t have a hair out of place as they do. Everyone wants to kill them or kiss them. 

Lauren tosses him a cocksure grin back, but it doesn’t have her heart in it, and she speeds up just to prove him wrong. It feels good, the burn in her lungs, the ache in her muscles, as she drives herself to go faster, faster, break free. Break the wind, break her chains, _break._ She’s sweaty and panting and her bun’s toppled down her back and now whipping in the wind as a red flag of surrender, but she keeps going. 

“Lauren, wait!” he shouts, but she doesn’t listen. She’s running so fast her eyes have started to tear up, and the world is fading away. “Lauren, _wait, there’s a--”_

She doesn’t get to hear what the rest of his sentence is, because she collides headfirst into the dirt pavement. Apparently what Will had been warning her about was a rack of wooden cross-country beams right in front of her. Lauren spits out dirt as he runs up to her, breathing heavily, hair now askew.

“You alright?”

She spits out another mouthful of dirt. “Help me.”

He does, and with a groan, Lauren is lifted into the air with his help, but she nearly crashes into his chest this time. They both grab onto each other for support, panting. 

“You should look where,” he breathes, voice run raw, “you’re going.”

“Yeah, mother,” she says, without the energy to be sarcastic. “Sure thing.”

And then she falls on her back, dust clouds rising where she flops.

“Lauren,” Will groans.

“Leave me,” she whispers. “I’ll get up soon. I’m tired.”

He groans louder, but apparently his desire for shelter is greater, because he flops down next to her, grabbing a water bottle out of the bag he’d brought, splashing half of it over his front. She doesn’t care about etiquette as she grabs it as he tosses it her way, chugging the rest of it in three swigs. SINCLAIR 17 is now coated in trackfield dust.

“We’ve got five minutes before the gun range,” Will says, once he can actually speak again.

“I know,” she huffs out, blowing hair out of her face. 

“You don’t sound excited,” he comments, looking back at her. She holds up a hand to block out the sun, but it hides his face, too. 

“I just collapsed into the dirt.”

“Okay, fair, but you’re usually really happy about weapons trials,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Lauren cracks one eye open. “Are _you_ okay? You’ve been acting weird ever since your dad came back from the Northern reaches.”

That shuts him up temporarily as he lies down beside her. “My family doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re avoiding the question, Lauren. I mean it. Are you okay?”

“Yes, are you?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“That’s not a response, Will,” she says, kicking his knee.

_“Ow!_ What are you, twelve?”

“I’m not required to act ladylike in this situation,” she taunts, wiggling a bit. “You’re still my friend, though.”

“And you’re mine,” he breathes, smiling a bit. “Don’t taunt me when I walk you home later, then.”

_“You--”_

A whistle blows. They both pop up like groundhogs as it does, and the rest of the students on the lawn begin scurrying towards the call too. Lauren grabs at her own tote bag, slinging books in and tossing it over her shoulder as she follows Will over to the gun range. He’s right about one thing, apparently: when it comes for her turn at the range, the smooth metal feels awkward in her palm. It never has before, and even when she musters as much rage as she can over the target in front of her, she misses. Twice.

The instructor shakes her head.

Classes aren’t that eventful for the rest of the evening, too. She sits through the last lecture of the day bored out of her mind, chin on her hand. It’s only when Lauren looks down at her textbooks, rifling through them out of the need to do something with her hands, that she realizes one of the worn, neutral-colored tomes isn’t hers. It’s littered with field notes, annotations everywhere, and the cover totes a human skull attached to a ribcage with flowers blooming out the sides. It’s most likely one of the medical books given to the aspiring forensic students.

_A Complete Guide to Anatomy and Physiology,_ reads the title.

No name inside, when she looks in the index, or anywhere else. She glances around the room. She should give it back.

But when the bell rings, she forgets to, and only realizes that she’s brought it home when she plops down on her desk in her room, the book staring at her through the fabric. Lauren tugs on the collar of her vest and shirt nervously.

_I should ignore it._

_I shouldn’t. I’m bored out of my mind._

_I need a distraction and I am really, really desperate._

_I could shoot a couple rounds for practice, but I don’t want to._

See, the thing is that Lauren Sinclair loves guns. 

They shoot through paper and targets and flesh easily, though she’s never shot the latter, and has no plans to, ever. The recoil is a hard pressure against her skin. The metal reassures her. The sound of bullets and the smell of them are reassuring. As long as she has a weapon she can use, the world is right. She will not be helpless. She can act. She will defend her people.

But she’s more comfortable with death than she’d like to be, and lately, watching the bullet fly out of the trigger reminds her of the very criminal organization that killed her loved ones. It reminds her that she’s fighting fire with fire, and that she’s only going to drive up her own fire until it kills her to fight another fire. It reminds her that she fights monsters and the only way to fight a monster is to become one herself.

Or maybe she’s not comfortable with a gun any longer because she knows a monster doesn’t need guns.

_I grieve._

Her hands touch the cover of the book.

One peek won’t do any harm.

____

“You visited the public library?” Tristan exclaims, watching her set a pile of books on her desk. 

“Yep,” Lauren says, rolling the _p_ as she shakes the last book out of the bag. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not! It’s just that I...I wasn’t aware the officer track made you do so many written exams,” he says, walking towards her collection of tomes. Lauren’s eyes widen as he approaches the stack, and rushes to toss the paper bag aside, and cover his view with her body. “I thought we had enough resources here in the manor.”

“Oh, well, some books just weren’t available here. And they do. This is just extra reading,” she bluffs, laughing a bit. It’s uncomfortably hot in her blue turtleneck and pants. “I - uh--”

“Lauren,” he says slowly, and mentally, she slaps herself. He’s peering over her shoulder. “Why are you reading up on disease?”

_Nerves and Life._

_Gray’s Anatomy._

_The Canon of Medicine._

_The Principles and Practice of Medicine._

_Taber’s Encyclopedia on Lethal Disease and Illness._

_Diarthian Collection on Poisons._

She swallows. Hard.

“You’re not taking any science classes.”

“I’m not,” she responds, looking down. Lauren fiddles with the gold chain at her neck. Tristan walks closer to her, and inspects the books more closely. When he looks back up at her, he isn’t smiling, but isn’t angry or frustrated like he thought he’d be. Instead, he looks sad.

“Talk to me.”

“I’ve developed an interest,” she blurts out. “I know. I know it’s a distraction.”

“This is a lot more than a distraction,” he says softly. She winces.

“I can explain.”

“Please do.”

Lauren can’t find the words for a long while, but when she does, they come out in a rush.

“I don’t want any more death. I don’t want any of it. And I know it happens. I know it’s a normal part of life. But I just - if I knew, if I _knew_ how to stop it at the root, rather than the bud, maybe things would be different. If I’d chosen a different track back then, I could’ve started learning how to save lives sooner. Maybe even put it into practice. I know what our legacy is. I know we’re defenders of the people. Stop corruption. But the system doesn’t work for us - for me - any longer,” she erupts, flinging an arm towards a now-occupied board by her bed with red thread attached to it. “The very least I can do is--”

And it hits, then. The absolute reason.

The very least she can do is honor Dylan Rosenthal’s wish.

He’s confirmed dead. She’d cried herself to sleep over the result two years prior, after smuggling files from the autopsy room after Tristan took her to the APD on a visit. 

So there’s nothing else she _can_ do now but honor his memory and his dream.

And fight.

Fight like everything depends on her, because it does.

When Tristan speaks, everything changes.

“How soon do you want to exit the officer track?”

“Immediately.”

____

She’s twenty and is graduating from Ardhalis University’s pre-med track.

It hadn’t been easy.

In fact, on the day she graduates, she’s glad that she doesn’t feel like dying for once.

Studying the Craft is no damn joke. No amount of nepotism or money or bribery can make one move faster in the study of medicine. It’s even more cutthroat than any Academy program. You succeed - or you fail - and you exit permanently. The Craft takes no prisoners. It cannot. It is life and death both. It’s named that way for a reason; medicine is more like an art, a battle, and a puzzle all at once. The human body is a machine and a force and a painting, and must be served with care. Normally, she’d have entered the university program for medicine at her age and serve four to six years of general study - for all doctors: physicians, psychiatrists, surgeons, you name it - but that wasn’t enough for her. It couldn’t be. When she asked her advisor on how an early graduation could be possible, the woman had laughed and told her, in plain terms, that she could not possibly succeed in a program meant for, at the very least, six years confined into two.

She did it anyway.

She hardly made any friends, and her sleep schedule was non-existent. Her days revolved around studying, studying and more studying, and she only stopped to rest when the words started literally swimming in front of her eyes or she passed out on her desk by candlelight. And even then she woke up half the time and held the candle above her arms on a perch, so that when she felt like nodding off the wax would drip onto her skin and force her awake.

No doctor, Aerothe or Paracel could heal her wounds completely. She still has slight pink marks around her left and right forearms. 

“Would you like to visit the Alkahest after this? The temple is nearby on campus,” the provost asks kindly, as the cameras flash, and the crowd goes wild. _Former police academy student turned medical prodigy graduates general program at twenty. LE JOURNAL, EDITION 156._

“I’ll try,” she says, nodding politely as she flashes another smile for the cameras.

“We need you more than you know,” she continues, murmuring softly in Lauren’s ear. “Ardhalis’s sickness rates are being driven up by the winters. You’ll be taking care of good people.”

“Thank you, Provost.”

More camera flashes.

Tristan is with the rest of the APD leaders, beaming with pride. The crowd is separated into three colors: the medical school makes its students on the individual three tracks wear either gold, blue or green. Doctor, Aerothe, or Paracel. A general practitioner soon to specialize in advanced study, an alchemist specializing in anatomical studies, or chemical studies. All paid heed to the Pantheon or the Alkahest that hovers above the university as statues in the courtyard - a circle of gods and ornate symbols that show the universe at hand. The old religions are no longer a broad thing in Ardhalis, but she knows many still pay tribute in their heads. 

_I grieve._

_But today, I give,_ she thinks, exhaling. _I finally give._

  
  


____

  
  


All of this places itself in front of her in the now, at the age of twenty two, and asks her to choose. Choose which way the compass swings at last - true north, or another direction entirely.

She isn’t sure if she’s breathing right. It certainly feels like she’s breathing, yes, and her vitals are fine, but as she does a head to toe scan of her body, something feels off. Lauren realizes with a jolt of clarity through the onset of emotion in her brain. Anxiety. Panic. Something like it. Forces herself to breathe in regular intervals so she can hear the man in front of her speak. He hasn’t been for the past hour. 

The man - Kieran - regards her with a tilt of his head, cocking a brow up. “Interesting.”

“What is?” she asks, too quickly and too suddenly, her fists curling the material of her trousers. 

He smiles a bit, and it’s like being hit with a beam of bright sunlight. Blinding and deadly. “You, of course. I hope you don’t mind the compliment, doctor. Or...Lauren? Which would you prefer?”

Anger rushes through her, hot and heady. “Doctor. That is my title, after all. I did not go through four years of mind-numbing work to just be called Lauren.”

“That’s what I thought,” he hums to himself, not even the slightest bit thrown off by her attitude. The anger grows hotter in her heart as he snaps his fingers, and the woman from before hands him a file. Below the hood, she can spot a mask covering her face, similar to the ones the doctors use, and pink hair. “You’re twenty two, a newly made disease physician. Just two years ago you were assistant to the former disease physician, and at twenty one, you studied abroad in Calanthe, but now, you still serve the head physician. A Sinclair, that much is obvious. Close connections with Dakan Rhysmel and the Aevasther family, come from a line of traders and wealthy businessmen--”

“I didn’t give you permission to snoop around in my past,” she snaps, standing up. Whoever this man thinks he is, she’ll sooner wring his neck then let him continue on with that arrogant drawl of his. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, clearly, so I please beg you--” she says with as much forced politeness as she can, “to _leave.”_

His lips thin, slightly. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

_“Why?”_ she barks out. She hasn’t been this angry in ages.

And for some reason, Kieran latches onto it like a snake, digging in his fangs. He likes this. He _likes_ riling her up, this cursed man. “Why, I’m here for you, of course.”

She chokes on a retort when sirens sound. In an instant, the windows slam in, the interior wooden panes closed by the men around him. The woman from before goes to attend to the doors, locking them shut. Lauren doesn’t get a chance to ask what’s going on before he sweeps in front of her like a tall, lurking shadow, removing a mask from his own pocket. It’s a half mask, enough to cover his mouth and lower nose, but is made of metal, sharp and tipped with obsidian and iron. When he puts it on, his eyes shine through dangerously. 

“Oh, yes,” she bites out sarcastically, watching the scene unfold around her. “The All Saints Hospital is going to be _so pleased_ when one of their doctors is swept away by some mysterious man in black.”

“‘Mysterious man in black’? Darling, you wound me. You couldn’t have come up with a better epithet?”

“I’ll come up with more creative ones if you don’t shut up,” she nearly roars. “You--”

He clamps a hand around her mouth. All at once, two police break through the doors, guns raised. She opens her mouth to warn them - scream - she doesn’t know which, but Kieran reacts before she can. Without hesitation, he throws a dagger and it lands true in the first policeman’s heart, sending him crashing down onto the ground. She barely sees him raise a sword from a sheath on his belt, and it moves so fast that it looks like a blur of silver cuts the second one down. The rest come streaming in, but they’re met with more gunfire, and _that’s_ when she actually lets out a yell as he grabs her, lifts her up as if she weighs nothing, and they both go colliding with the floor, him on top of her like a shield. With the dark mask on, he looks more monster than man. And the blood on his skin does nothing to disprove it.

Kieran narrows his eyes, and Lauren lets out a gasp as he shoots an officer she hadn’t even seen running towards them, behind the fallen couch. When the last body is dead, he gets off her immediately, but she stays on the floor, shaking out of control.

Well, she certainly has a list of epithets now.

Apostles. She isn’t sure what those are, but she’s heard rumors, and judging from the weapons--

The masks--

The _violence--_

“Phantom Scythe,” she croaks out, as he removes his mask. A bit of crimson dots the corner of his mouth, and he wipes at it with the corner of his hand, smirking ruthlessly down at her. 

“Correct, doctor,” Kieran says.

Lauren grabs at a fallen knife.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“What--”

The others don’t stop her as she runs towards Kieran, the Leader of the Phantom Scythe himself, stumbles back as she aims the knife for his heart. Her hand is on his bare chest, feeling bare skin beneath it, and when she looks down at those blue, blue eyes, she _hates._

When they’re on the floor again, she can hear the click of guns trained on her. She’s panting, auburn strands in her face as she looks down at him. They’re close enough for a lover’s embrace, and they both share the same air as they look at each other, the knife she’d grabbed plunging deep into his chest. But when Lauren grabs the hilt, it moves oddly. She looks down in horror as she removes the hilt - and the blade goes with it, free of blood. She slams it down again. The blade goes inside the handle. Lauren realizes with dread that she’d grabbed one of the stage knives from the nearby decorative case on the tables.

“Don’t shoot,” Kieran croaks out, looking much too pleased for a man who has just been through an attempted murder. “I order you not to shoot the doctor. I need her alive.”

She’s shaking with rage as he gets up, and she scrambles off him, still clutching the knife. He’s smiling. Does he ever stop smiling?! “There it is again.”

“Go to hell, you damn monster,” she spits.

Something in his eyes flickers. “Yes, there it is. You have that look in your eyes. That anger. That’s a good thing.”

“Get out of here,” she nearly screeches. “You’re not taking me, and I am most certainly not leaving here. Leave. _Now.”_

The men start to close in on her again, but Kieran sighs, raising a hand, and they halt again. The pink-haired woman besides him scoffs, just barely audibly. 

“Very well, doctor.” He tilts his chin, holding a bloodied, gloved hand over his heart. His ruthless, ruthless heart. “But really do understand that I came here for you. In forty eight hours, if you’d like to meet me at the following address, I would like to explain - in bloodless terms - why your assistance is needed for my cause. And your assistance alone. I will not bring my men. Do not bring the police or any other companions along. I will know.” The last three words are said with a clear threat in his eyes as he slides a card across the floor to her. 

Lauren doesn’t say anything, just stands there with the weight of her rage as they leave the waiting room, and Kieran last - closing the doors with a wink and a bow.

When the rest of the police come ten minutes later, they find her watching the aftermath of a bloodbath play out, clutching at a daisy ripped in half.

____

The woman in black approaches without a sound. The two men in front of her bow deeply as she removes her hood, not daring to peek at all. When she commands them to stand is when they do: in front of them stands an imperious and elegant pink-haired lady in crimson, the corset and matching dress pants hugging her figure well. A serpentine blade is strapped to her belt, and she wears long, dark gloves. Diamonds dot her lobes, and when she smiles, the color crimson on her lips does as well.

“You’ve been making good progress, I assume?”

“Lord Belladonna,” one says. “We have indeed.”

“Status report on the poisons,” she says, tugging at one glove with her teeth as she goes over to lean on the factory railing of the warehouse. Below her, the machines are hard at work, and from some of the pipes being handled by workers with gas masks and gloves on, gold liquid pumps beneath the machine. She hisses in pleasure - the sight of toxic venom is a feeling better than any blade in a man’s heart or the tug of teeth and lips on her clavicle. 

“The venom should be ready in a fortnight. New chemical compounds in the Golden Viper formula. Meant to react to the antibodies in those infected with Crimson Death.”

“Really?” She cocks a brow their way. “How’d the scientists figure _that_ one out?”

“They did, my Lord,” they say, and Bella smiles. Smart. “Based it off the antibodies gathered from the old Blood Plague strain twenty seven years past.”

“Old descendant. Well,” she says, stretching her arms out. “I’ll be returning to the manor. Don’t cause any trouble, now. I am, after all, its owner, no matter how many times my old friend stays there.”

“My Lord.”

Belladonna smiles not with her lips, but with her eyes, as the elevator doors shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering why Lauren's character is a thousand times more feral in this AU, and then I looked at the backstory I had charted out for her, and went 'oh. That's why.'
> 
> (Just for confirmation's sake: she still copes with anxiety and depression in the current timeline, and is neurodivergent.)


	3. Chapter 3

_ “Give an Ardhalian gold, and he’ll buy a house. Give an Ardhalian the means to make gold, and he’ll buy a house, your house, and all the horses and money in the world.” _

**_-Calanthian Saying, Dated X897_ **

_ “The human body contains multitudes, and so does the mind. There is darkness within the light, and light within the darkness. Both systems act to form one body, one soul: in the end, one human. One cannot function without the other. Without the other, each aspect of the body is unbalanced. Ancient practice and modern science both has proven this to be true, and yet, too often, we let ourselves become unbalanced. Let life overtake us and discard all caution, all equilibrium to the wind. In a sense, then, sometimes we bring our own doom upon us.” _

**_-Diarthian Guide to Psychology, XX23 Edition II_ **

  
  


____

It takes three hours for her to concentrate on the task assigned to her.

After the bloodbath in the northern wing, the police had officially closed off that section of the floor, and brought her in for questioning. The entire hospital was in a ruckus over the scene. When she’d mentioned the Phantom Scythe, the cop questioning her had suddenly stood up abruptly, murmuring a series of harsh words to his colleague. All Saints was in the 10th precinct, and as such, a different set of policemen were handling this case - police that stared at her with beady eyes. She longed for Kym and Will at moments like these. Did she know why she’d been brought in? Truthfully, no. Who did she talk to? One person. Who did she  _ see?  _

_ A woman in a black cloak, more than ten men, and-- _

Her brain refused to give away the answers immediately. Lauren had to bite down on the impulse to give away everything. Blue eyes, black hair. Not entirely Ardhalian - of Kansai descent, perhaps. A man in dark clothing, about six feet tall, much taller than she was. Well-built. In possession of a black and silver-tipped mask, and a katana strapped to his hip. The city had spent ages trying to find the Leader, sending out their best detectives, their attack dogs out to trail any remaining scent the infamous masked man left behind. But try as they might, they could never find anything other than a fast-fading dead end, and were continuously stuck in one tight spot they’d been stuck in ever since XX24.

The Purple Hyacinth, once the Phantom Scythe’s most vicious killer, had vanished four years ago. As if a sudden breeze had swept up the hints of purple smears on the ground tainted with crimson until there was nothing but the ghost of floral perfume sticking in the tepid air. Before the plague hit; before everything hit. 

Somehow, they knew the two were linked, but did not know why.

Lauren had been at the academy when the news had hit, still a detective in training. And of course, she’d had her theories, but after a year passed, and another, with no sign of the murderer returning, the police had laid down their arms and March told her to stand down.

She could’ve given them everything.

Not yet, however.

She crumpled the card Kieran had given her inside her pocket as the police paced around in the makeshift interrogation room. Another piece - a chess piece given to her freely. A  _ name.  _ Whether a pseudonym or a real name, the ball was now in her court. But she wasn’t naive enough to believe he’d given it to her without consequences. He wanted to meet with her. A murderer and terrorist wanted to meet with a healer and doctor. For whatever reason it entailed.

_ 10894 Baker Ave, 1st Precinct. _

So when they asked her who she saw, once again, she told them she couldn’t see behind the mask.

It wasn’t a lie. Not completely, at least.

Lauren isn’t naive. But this information is too valuable to let go. She isn’t some hapless maiden. Whether or not she actually plans to pursue this trail is another thing entirely.

And she still can’t focus on the files in front of her.

“It’s still missing your signature,” the man in front of her says, and she startles in her chair with a jolt. She skims over the papers once more for good measure - detailing ethical procedures as per the law and a few pictures of antibodies shot through graying lenses - and rapidly signs her name in hasty cursive, slamming the file shut and pushing it his way.

“When can I expect an answer?” she blurts out, standing at the same time he does. He shrugs, the badge on his white coat glinting in the air.  _ Assistant Laboratory Scientist, PhD.  _

“They’re in need of a consultant from the ID section, so you’re most likely a good fit for the vaccine team,” he amends, thinking it over. “In a couple of days, three or four, is my guess. Hopefully we’ll be able to find a cure for this thing before the year’s over. We’ll be recruiting future volunteers on the side, as well.”

“Good,” Lauren says with relief, nodding. She needs a distraction, desperately. “With luck, we’ll be able to find a permanent solution to the Crimson.”

“Hopefully,” he mirrors back, and with a mock salute, leaves her office. 

When the door closes shut, she exhales deeply, running her hands through her hair. Her own white coat is still being washed free of bloodstains, and so she just walks around in a black turtleneck and pants with a badge clipped to her pocket -  _ Disease Physician, M.D -  _ but without a mask, as she’s only been inhabiting the ID sector for a few days, wary of straying down to the lower levels, out of the hospital’s self-imposed quarantine for her, as they worry for her safety, and her own fear. Alone with a desk full of littered papers, half-burnt candles, and research texts is where she feels safe for now. 

Lauren’s halfway through readjusting her usual bun, tugging short strands of auburn behind her ear, when she hears murmurings in the hallway. She whirls around, and rushes over to the door to tug it open a bit. The assistant scientist hasn’t left yet, apparently, because he’s busy talking to an Aerothe in red. The gold brooch on his collar seperates him from a Paracel’s silver marking - where the Paracels specialize in chemical sciences, the Aerothe specialize in the herbal types. 

“Haven’t you consulted with the Head?”

“I have, but the solution’s not necessarily the ‘safest one’ at the moment, and restrictions are being imposed on the society of alchemists--”

“They should understand, we’re in a time of crisis!”

“Doesn’t stop them from wanting profit over wellbeing.” The Aerothe is clearly angered. “You and I have to be careful what we say these days. The walls have ears, doctor.”

Lauren closes the door shut with a small click, heart racing in her chest.

She really, really should stop being drawn to things she shouldn’t be involved in.

____

When the clock chimes eleven, Lauren is finally allowed to leave the hospital. Sinclair Manor’s lights stay on the longest in the local neighborhood, with a Chief of Police and physician niece both staying up until the odd hours and daylight runs fast. So it isn’t unusual for her to arrive home with Tristan already waiting by the foyer, with dinner already served, or with a paper in tow and a welcoming mug of coffee ready.

Today, he waits by a chessboard - she’d called in with news that yes, she’d already eaten more than one blueberry, and  _ yes,  _ she was taking care of herself - contemplating his next move against an invisible opponent. Tristan Sinclair plays white, as always, and when he sees her hang up her trench coat, his eyes brighten behind his spectacles. She waves in greeting - and sees the two half-empty coffee cups on a nearby table. He’s had visitors over.

“Dakan visited again?” she teases snarkily, cocking a hip as she walks over to the board.

Tristan looks to the side, coughing. Lauren doesn’t miss the slight flush covering his face. “Briefly. Do you want to play?”

“I haven’t in a while,” she concedes, stretching her arms, “but I suppose I can.”

“White or black?”

“Black,” she says automatically, sitting across from him, resting her chin on her hands as she glances down at the artfully arranged pieces, going back into place from pawn to bishop to king as her uncle arranges them back into place. “You know me by now.”

“Yes, I do, my little  _ noire,”  _ he teases, ruffling her hair.

“I’m not five!” she objects, shoving his hands away playfully. She grins as they both settle back down, their expressions mirroring each other, both the same look of meditative calm. But whereas Tristan’s is contemplative, practiced, Lauren’s steel in those golden-rimmed irises is intense - predatory. She sees as much in the reflection of her uncle’s spectacles.

He opens with a Caro-Kann defense. She bites her lip.

White usually has the advantage, and she hasn’t played in a while.

“How’s work going at the department?” she says conversationally, moving a pawn forward. “I know things have been hectic with the...Phantom Scythe and all.”

“You’ve never been one for cheap tactics,” Tristan teases, seeing right through her attempt to distract him, and carts off her bishop. Lauren curses internally, but he continues. “It’s...a work in progress. But we’re tackling things. The IU has been assigned to investigate into Phantom Scythe tactics specifically. We believe they’re using the Crimson Death to gain more territory and target more upper-class citizens who are more vulnerable.”

She pauses, a chill running up her sleeve. “You’re saying they could initiate a sort of biological warfare?”

“It’s a running theory. There’s nothing that has been established yet. But yes, that’s one possibility.”

“And to think I was just sending in my application for the vaccination team this afternoon,” she mutters. Tristan pauses as she captures his bishop in turn. 

“That’s--”

“Pawn to bishop four,” she drawls, looking at him through her lashes. “Did I miss something,  _ uncle?” _

He chuckles, but something in his eyes shifts. “You’re learning fast. I underestimated you, admittedly.”

“Don’t, then,” she throws back at him slyly. “Go on. Your turn.”

Tristan lingers over a knight and a rook. “Has the hospital taken appropriate procedures?” His tone has shifted from playful to stern.

“Yes, they’ve hired more guards and everything,” she sighs, capturing his rook. She’s moving faster now, sensing the moves as they come, every piece on her board a mere weapon in her rapid arsenal. “The 10th precinct guards All Saints Hospital very closely.”

“And you didn’t see anyone at all?” 

Lauren almost flinches from the look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

“I don’t mean to interrogate you, Ren,” he says softly, eyes now trained on her. “It’s just that we need all the information we can get.”

“Believe me,” she says smiling tightly, “if I had more information, I’d give it to you.”

He doesn’t see her touch the card in her pocket, fiddling with the smooth edges. 

“Checkmate,” she blurts out.

Tristan blinks down at the board. She has his pieces in a gridlock, her queen poised at the center. One finger lingers on his white king, rocking it back and forth. With a sigh and a small smile, he nods, and she lets it collapse onto the wood, rolling a bit.

_ “C’est dommage, non?” _

“You win,” he says, spreading his arms. “Winner takes all. What would you like?”

She cocks a brow skyward. Lauren crosses her legs. “You’re saying I get something?”

“Anything you like.” Tristan ponders on this for a while. “Well. Something I can give you, of course.”

Her heels click the floor once as she bends forward, laughing. Lauren’s grin grows sinister. “Alright, then. What was Dakan doing here, so late at night?”

_ “Lauren--” _

“You two are close, aren’t you? The entire 11th precinct’s been breathing down your back about a husband like they’ve been up and down mine about getting a boyfriend, much less a husband or a  _ wife--” _

He splutters, but the damage has been done, and she giggles with glee as their game comes to a close, a light snowfall starting to descend on the blue-lit roofs of Ardhalis, piece by piece.

____

It takes barely twenty-four hours for All Saints to certify her place on the vaccination team as assistant director in the shape of a cream-colored envelope delivered at six in the morning. She’s so giddy with anticipation that she finishes the waffles Lucy sets out, for once, and practically sprints out the door to the 10th precinct. 

As a former detective, she’d normally go on foot to work, but Ardhalis’s metropolitan system has had recent updates in the past few years - in addition to a mobilized train system, a trolley system that operates around the clock, connected to linear black cables that extend across building roofs. She snatches one of the early ones, all smooth cherry wood and green and gold seats, and watches the wind blow as the trolley takes her across the precinct. Her good mood is only slightly dampened when she feels the familiar card in the fabric of her coat, however, and she pulls it out to look at it once more. 

Lauren wiggles it a bit. Research needs her mind clear and focused, and she could either throw the card away or very well go down on a wild goose chase.

She has everything. In fact, she’s always had a little too much of everything. The typical rich girl tended to at every whim, never getting her hands dirty. Even in the field, she doesn’t get her hands dirty. A physician working in ID rarely gets their hands dirty - except, of course, in severe situations.

Her mind flashes back to Marie, and she bites down on her lip hard. No one else can see the motion underneath her black mask, but she feels self conscious anyways. 

She’d been an Apostle. Someone working for - relatively speaking - an evil cause.

The world blurs before her as she knows it. It’s against her oath, the Hippocratic Oath, period, to refuse medical attention to the needy. But if she hadn’t saved Marie - perhaps the Phantom Scythe wouldn’t have trailed her. 

Maybe Kieran White wouldn’t have come for her.

The trolley stops abruptly. Lauren looks up quizzically, and after a few moments, the conductor announces the fuses have broken down. With disappointed sighs, the passengers begin to get off, and so does she, adjusting her mask and badge on her coat as she begins to walk the rest of the way to All Saints. The streets are still fresh with snow from last night’s snowfall, and she winces as she hops over a puddle of wet mush, now slowly merging with ice over a bend. It’s relatively quiet on the pathway to the 10th, and she raises her head to the sky, feeling oddly isolated in the silence.

If nothing, the emptiness makes for a pretty scene. If only she could paint it. But she’s never been much of an artist. And it took an almost death to make her a healer, not a warrior. Sometimes taking the easy way comes too easily and she has to snap herself out of it.

_ You can’t punch your way out of problems anymore. _

She’s not imagining things.

Her ears perk up. There it is again - footsteps.

Unless she’s being paranoid, someone’s following her. Gooseflesh crawls up the exposed back of her neck as she begins to walk faster, her heels clacking on cobblestone. Lauren furiously steadies her breathing, attempting not to panic, but after the first block she rounds, listening closely for the footsteps, they follow nearly two seconds later, and her pulse jumps.

She speeds up, her gait almost like a miniature speedwalk at this point, trying to remember her training. If she can catch the person off-guard--

Lauren whirls around after coming to an abrupt halt. 

There’s no one there.

She doesn’t back down, however. She stays there for almost a minute, eyes scanning the area. No passerby on either side. There is an alleyway near her, however, and she stalks over to it, sticking her head inside quickly.

No one there, either.

She lets out a loud noise of relief, tugging down her mask.

Too soon.

“Ren--”

She lets out a yell, and as a large hand reaches out to grab her wrist, she turns in the stranger’s grip, reaching in her belt for a pocketknife. The blade goes swinging in the air, and Lauren watches as a white-haired man stumbles back, clutching at his cheek, hissing. Her right hand is outstretched, gripping onto the knife tightly. Her feet have shifted into a stance out of instinct, but she realizes with dread she’s in no position to fight. Not anymore, at least. When he tears his hand away from his face, she realizes who she’s looking at with warm dread pooling in her stomach. A bruise stings his hallowed cheek, and a scruffy beard dots his jaw. He looks exhausted, and his gray eyes look through her with no emotion. She realizes with a chill they’re practically dead inside.

Him.

It’s him.

He’s  _ dead. _

He should be  _ dead. _

“Hello, Ren,” Abel Sandman rasps, standing tall with a sense of fatigue that extends his years. “It’s been a while.”

“You’re…” The knife shakes in her grip. “You’re supposed to be  _ dead—” _

“It’s a long story.” He pauses, glancing down at the knife in her hand. Then at her panicked and clearly shocked expression. “Put the knife down. I’m not here to harm you, Ren—”

_ “Don’t call me that,”  _ she spits, and suddenly, Lauren sees red. The past comes rushing back all at once: she is twelve again, waving goodbye to her parents, and in a darkened car rests a driver with four fingers. On his left she can clearly see one missing. A camera is in his pocket.

“I—”

_ “Doctor.”  _ She’s trembling with rage, and has not put down the knife, but her voice is steady. “You call me doctor. Why are you here? How are you here?”

“I don’t have time for that,” he nearly spits, voice low and poisonous. Clearly, he doesn’t have the patience for an explanation, and his facade of calm is wearing down rapidly. “All I need you to know is that it isn’t safe for us to be meeting out here. You need to come with me.”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I have the answers you seek.”

She stops dead in her tracks. She’d been shifting into a standing position. 

“I,” Lauren says slowly, swallowing, “gave up on answers a long time ago.”

“Please.” Sandman looks exasperated beyond belief. “You think I believe any of that?” She winces at the smell of cigar smoke on him. “You were never the type to lick your wounds and move on with life, doctor.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“You—” Her hands ball into fists. Beside the camera in his pocket remain photographs. A peek of a girl with her hair in a bun looks up at her.

Before she can scream, his hand slams over her mouth and the other knocks the knife out of her hand, holding her wrist down. She thrashes and kicks in his grip, but he overpowers her easily, and starts to drag her backwards in the alley. Lauren bites his palm, but he doesn’t budge, and she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling suffocated by the bitter smell of cigar smoke in her senses, almost like poison—

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Her eyes snap open.

In front of her is none other than Kieran himself. He isn’t dressed at all for combat. No katana, no mask. All she can see on him is a normal beige winter coat and a cravat over a well-fitted vest and pants. He looks like any handsome, normal stranger you’d see on the streets.

His eyes aren’t normal, however.

They’re burning. 

Well, this is an unprecedented work day. Her transportation to work broke down, and now she’s going to have to fight off her old driver and the devil himself.

Slowly, Kieran’s hand slides into a pocket, gripping something tightly. “Let the doctor go. I’m sure we can resolve this peacefully, sir.”

Lauren hisses through Sandman’s hand, her ability to speak temporarily ripped from her. But Sandman’s eyes narrow, and she gasps as his grip on her tightens, the knife he’d knocked out of her hand now under the heel of his boot. “I require her. Leave us.”

“Looks like she doesn’t want to go with you, though. Are you quite sure about that?”

_ I don’t want to go with you either, you beast. _

“I have what she wants.”

Kieran rolls his eyes, waving a hand in the air. “Really, I had no idea chivalry was so dead these days! Tell you what.” Before she can react, Kieran’s hands are taut on a gun, pointed straight at Sandman. “You let her go, and you live. You don’t, and I shoot. How about that?”

Lauren’s muffled yell of panic does nothing to dissuade either man from backing down. Her eyes widen as Sandman raises a gun from his own pocket, and a muffled yell echoes louder throughout the alleyway as the barrel of it meets her own temple. Kieran doesn’t meet her gaze still as he aims at her driver with a precise aim, both weapons in the path of destruction, a three-way collision course.

“This is my last warning.” His voice is sharp as flint. “Let the doctor  _ go.” _

_ “No.” _

Kieran sighs. 

And then he finally, finally looks at her, and it feels like she’s been set on fire.

“Sorry about this.”

_ What-- _

A searing pain ricochets through her leg, and a cloud of smoke explodes in the alleyway. Lauren collapses to the ground on her side, and when she rolls over, agonizing pain racking her body up and down, Sandman is nowhere to be seen. Footsteps approach her rapidly, and before she can object, Kieran is lifting her upright, carrying her bridal-style in his arms like she weighs little more than a sack of potatoes. She hisses as one hand steadies her leg straight - and realizes what he’s done. The expanding crimson blot on her pants hurts like hell.

He’d shot her to make Sandman let her go.

It doesn’t make it any less of a betrayal.

“Doctor--” Kieran starts, but he’s cut off as Lauren tugs her mask on before slapping him in the face. His jaw veers to the side, the sharp sound clear in the silence. He shakes it off after a moment of a stunned silence, glancing at her. She’s scowling at him with the force of a thousand suns, her arms firmly crossed against her chest.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he murmurs.

“You are a piece of shit,” she growls. “Let me go.”

“Oh, yes, feel free to bleed out in an alley when I do,” he retorts sarcastically. “And heal a gunshot wound in a dirty area where there is risk of infection, or worse, the plague. Seriously?”

“You haven’t explained what you were doing here,” Lauren says, slapping a hand down on his shoulder as a non-verbal warning for him to let her go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he starts walking out of the alleyway at a rapid pace, crossing the street in smooth strides.

“You didn’t show up. I figured you’d abandoned the deal, and was on my way to the 11th precinct to run errands - yes, doctor, even leaders of criminal organizations run errands - when I saw a certain man trailing you. Luckily, I got there in the nick of time.”

And then he has the audacity to  _ wink. _

“Whatever,” she moans, wincing as the pain flares up. “Where are we going? The hospital again? I need to clean and disinfect the wound before I catch anything.”

“Where do you think?” he says, looking back at her. “To my house, of course. I’m not that foolish.”

____

_ Home  _ turns out to be less of a house than a chateau.

Her first impression is that it rivals Sinclair Manor in size. It rivals any of the upper-class neighborhood’s houses, really. The 1st district is close to the suburbs of Ardhalis, all rural grazing pastures and agricultural areas, and she has the sense the house inhabits some space close to the farmland areas. Otherwise, she certainly would’ve noticed it by now. Fog covers the moor, and it’s lit up by numerous windows, blackbirds flying high in the gray sky. It’s all black, clearly Gothic in design like All Saints, but almost more romantic in the way ivy climbs up its trellises and towers. The spires don’t piece the sky - they reach for it, tipped with gold.

“Home, huh?” she asks sardonically, glancing over at him. She’d managed to put on a temporary cast on her leg - grudgingly, with his help. Somehow, the Leader has not felt exhaustion all this while, not even while carrying her through numerous underground tunnels. The Underworld, he’d called it.

“Home,” he responds, meeting her gaze. A smirk etches over his face. “Welcome to Cainhurst Hall.”

She has no other words, except for: “I’m still going to kill you.”

“Oh, I believe that promise. But first, I want to make sure my killer doesn’t die of infection first.”

Lauren snorts as he adjusts her in his arms, carrying her through the gravel path, and through the open gates.

The foyer is undoubtedly a marvel of architecture. Crystal chandeliers illuminate walls in velveteen black lined with undertones of olive and navy, intricate portraits on either side of the wall. A spiral staircase leads up to the first floor - and the second, and the third, and the fourth, and onwards - with plush carpeting leading to the rooms on either side of the enormous room. A candelabra rests on one drawer, flames flicking in the light. Her mind nearly goes into overdrive trying to calculate how much money it would take to afford all this.

“Technically, it isn’t mine. I don’t have a mind for luxury,” he confesses, as he walks. “It’s my right hand’s, rather. And public property of the Scythe.”

“Public,” she repeats. “So this is where all the money you get from bloodshed comes from.”

“Kind of, yes.”

She has half a mind to bite him right then and there, but doesn’t.

Yet, anyway.

Kieran carries her all the way up to the third floor, and just when she thinks she can’t stand the pain any longer, they come to a rest outside a set of doors that he pushes open with his shoulder. Lauren takes in what seems to be a miniature infirmary, with medical supplies and herbs stacked on each side of the spacious walls. A circular window lets in light to the expansive cotton bed, and he sets her down on it cautiously, maintaining eye contact with him. If she had a knife right now to drive into his heart, she knows he wouldn’t even give her the satisfaction of surprise. Just blink and smile with that wicked, wicked grin of pure arrogance, all blackened at the edges.

“I’m going to extract the bullet myself,” she mutters, unwrapping the cast, tainted red. “Stand watch. If you come near me, I will--”

“--kill me, yes, yes I know,” he trills.

“I mean it,” she growls.

“Is it possible for you not to scream at me?” Kieran asks, with curiosity and obvious annoyance in his tone. Now they’re both scowling at each other. “I open my mouth to say one thing and you act like a banshee.”

“That’s because whatever you say is stupid,” she spits.

“I did carry you all the way here, you know.”

“You’re the lesser of two evils, and as of right now, Ardhalis’s reigning evil,” she says, wincing as she lifts her leg up onto the bed. “I need tweezers and hot water. Cloth, and fresh bandages.”

He doesn’t say a word as he retrieves them. He doesn’t say anything else, either, as she grunts through the pain of extracting metal from her calf, or washing the blood from it, or wrapping it up painstakingly slow. The crutch she designs from the bandages are enough for her to stabilize herself when she walks, but when she tests her foot on the floor, her gait is still wobbly. 

“I can arrange for transport back to the 10th,” he says slowly.

She looks up at him then. For once, he isn’t looking at her. His sideways profile in the light is sharp and cutting, accentuated by the dark colors surrounding him. “Not until you give me the answers I want.”

He lets out a bark of mirthless laughter. “I suppose those are due.”

“I’m owed them.” She sits up sternly, or at least with as much dignity as she can muster. “Why do you want my assistance?”

Kieran raises an eyebrow. “You’re a disease physician working at All Saints Hospital. One of the best in one of the best. The Phantom Scythe suffers from the Crimson Death as much as the regular population does, but in recent years, our numbers have been dwindling. I’m sure you think the monarchy has been handling the situation as best as they can, but that’s entirely the opposite of the truth. What you think you’re fighting for and what you’re actually fighting for are two entirely different things—”

“No, no,” she interrupts, waving a hand. “You... _ thrive  _ on sickness,” she hisses. “With your resources, you’d be able to afford thousands of doctors for your assassins, associates, recruits. Stop lying to me.”

“You,” he says slowly, “think we’re  _ manipulating  _ the Crimson Death?”

“You certainly aren’t improving it.”

“Doctor Sinclair,” he sighs, and somehow, she trembles imperceptibly at the way he says her name. It’s a plea and a concession and a low murmur all at once. “Whatever - whoever - gave you this information is woefully mistaken. The Phantom Scythe does many things to achieve its goals, but I have certainly never ordered nor orchestrated any type of biological warfare. If anything, the actions we take are to eliminate threats where we find them. My right hand is developing a poison that shortens the plague’s suffering period for those who have it. That’s the worst example, admittedly, but you see it for yourself. If anything, we wish to end it. Your history makes you a stunning candidate for a solution. We need  _ you  _ as the solution.”

“Fine. Let’s say you’re telling the truth. Why would I work with you? You order people to kill and commit crime. You kill yourself. You’ve committed some of the worst crimes in this city’s history.”  _ Allendale,  _ she thinks but does not say.

“If you’re thinking I’ve got an entire eon’s worth of crime behind me, I hate to break it to you, darling - I’m not a literal devil.” He cocks his head. “For now, I won’t trust you with much information, but I have not been the only Leader in this organization’s history. And I don’t expect you to be alright with that. We take drastic measures to achieve a means of better conditions in Ardhalis because we have no  _ other choice.  _ To combat inequality and sickness both. I’d hire you as the head physician in the medical sector. You wouldn’t have to encounter anything you’d be uncomfortable with.”

“Fine. Then why me? What would you offer me the vaccination team at All Saints doesn’t?!” she asks.

He pauses pacing.

“You really aren’t aware, are you?”

“Aware of what?” 

Kieran’s expression is something she has never seen before. It’s a mixture of that familiar annoying haughtiness - but also a sudden seriousness. Almost somber.

“You have a past that begs to be uncovered. A legacy here,” he says quietly, stepping forward. His gait has always been predatory from the day they met. “It’s your choice to make, but know this. Your heritage is in the Phantom Scythe.”

She isn’t sure if she’s breathing right.

“Before I ascended,” he says, “the original eleven Apostles stood in power years ago. Two of those Apostles were named Alexander and Rachel Sinclair.”

She’s definitely not breathing right.

“My parents were Apostles,” Lauren says numbly. 

Kieran nods imperceptibly. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to. Ask the Chief of Police about your parents.” He’s looking at her differently now, and the way he does roots her to the spot. She can’t move. He hasn’t told a single lie, from what she can discern, but his  _ eyes -  _ they say more than his words do; an almost-cocksure beckoning within them. 

_ It’s your choice. But one way or another, your path led to mine. _

_ And it will again. _

“Don’t—” she croaks out. There is no energy left in her to be angry. “Don’t. I’m going to leave now.”

All he does is nod. Doesn’t say anything to her nonverbal refusal to his offer. “I’ll call for transport,” he says, and Lauren closes her eyes as the door slams shut. When she feels that he’s well and truly gone, she collapses onto the bed, one hand over her eyes, all the fight sucked out of her.

It seems as if ten years ago she had just come out of the woods at last, and now, has been plunged into them once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch the Astra Inclinant reference in there, if you dare. 
> 
> We're getting somewhere, peeps! Somewhere. A bad somewhere. Sorry? But the spice is too good to pass up. 
> 
> (don't kill me please)
> 
> As of where we are in the canon, please regard the updated tags. I will be adding tags as we go along - and keep a lookout for the character and ship tags, if you catch my drift. I expect I&H to update less frequently from now on, but do expect longer chapters in the future. And who knows? Maybe I'll be nice and give you extra spice next time around...the good kind, I mean ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws extended chapter count at you, breakdances*
> 
> On a serious note, however, I'd like to clarify some things. And this is going to take a while, but I want all readers to see this before we dive back into the universe of Iris &Hyacinth, because it's crucial my readers - and the fandom does - as well.
> 
> Iris and Hyacinth is a work of fanfiction that deals with topics of moral ambiguity, ambiguous characterizations, and not-so-good things. However, over the past few days, I've been looking over the representational aspect of it as well. Purple Hyacinth is a flawed webcomic. That much is true. The writing is flawed, and the representation is flawed. It is written by a white author and illustrated by a woman of color, yet mainly displays a privileged white woman as its savior. She's unlearning her mindset, yes, but that doesn't take away from her status. And just because she's queer doesn't take away her privilege. Iris & Hyacinth aims to elaborate on what the webcomic does not - and I'm telling you what its intentions are here and now because I want to address those flaws. 
> 
> 1) Iris & Hyacinth will have POC, WOC, and explicitly queer people in its main cast. I have added most of the future character and ship tags all at once after careful consideration; I originally was not going to - but I want readers to be aware of what they are heading into. However, I will not be writing certain representations as FOCAL POINTS of Iris & Hyacinth. This refers to the fact that in the future, I will be writing a sapphic ship with Belladonna involved - but said relationship will not be a main ship. I will add the character and ship tag for this character/Belladonna when she is revealed in the non-FP episodes.
> 
> 2) Trauma, trauma recovery, and unhealthy relationships will be handled within Iris & Hyacinth. Be warned: they are messy. They are harmful at times, because life rarely shows us trauma healing in a straight line, and recovery from that afterwards either. I also hesitate to deem things 'toxic' like fictional relationships and fictional characters, because they are FICTIONAL, and are not a 1:1 representation of reality. This fic is also M for a reason. In some ways, it’s darker than Astra Inclinant. I wouldn’t say it’s as grimdark as AI. But it involves a lot more moral grayness, violence and gore, and eventual sexual content. Yes, ACTUAL eventual sexual content. This is not Scheherazade. I am not holding back. Please note there is also an additional Archive Warning. (On a lighter note, that one’s gonna hurt :) )
> 
> 3) Some choices within the narrative you won’t like me for. And that’s alright. But I want people to understand we cannot put people nor characters on pedestals, or stick to an idealized version of how they’re ‘supposed to act’ when having gone through extremely dark and traumatizing circumstances. There is almost a violently delicious glee in undoing expectations, and Iris & Hyacinth is, I suppose, an experiment in dissecting the original material and twisting it into something new entirely. But I mean it when I say this work will strive to carry out representation fairly - as well as its themes.
> 
> Screw spoilers. You matter. You deserve to matter.
> 
> (PS: And if you’re still upset with me ruining your ‘faves’...unclench your fist. Stand up. Exit this Ao3 page, and go touch some grass, darling.)

_“And so the scorpion said to the frog: ‘I cannot help but hurt you, for that is my nature.’”_

**_-A snippet from Ardhalian Folk Tales, published in X786_ **

  
  


_____

  
  


She hasn’t moved from her bed in three days and counting.

It’s only because the constant banging on the door on the first floor is so loud that she even bothers to sit up straight, disgruntled at the prospect of actually answering the doorbell. Lauren watches a vase of daisies wave in the wind, stems twirling bright green in the glass. A small petal on one of them falls to the ground, fluttering like the end of a butterfly’s wing.

Her mouth twitches at the memory of a certain boy holding those very flowers, flowers that once crowned her hair so, but it carves into a downturned scowl at the worse memory of two redheads. 

It’s all tainted now. Her parents’ tapestry is now bathed in black ink tearing at the pages, crossing out the vision she had of them before. No one’s infallible; it’s practically impossible, but to deem Rachel and Alexander Sinclair conspirators in league with a criminal organization after learning of what they did in the light - act as benefactors to the city’s poor and socialites among the rich, shake hands with the monarchs themselves, and spin her around to the tune of a waltz on some days, with her mother’s hand and father’s hand in each of hers - it’s a breaking point. The glass mural of them she has crafted has shattered to pieces and is waiting for her to reassemble them.

She can’t, not yet.

The banging grows louder.

Lauren groans as she flops back onto the bed. “Lucy!”

Tristan is at work, and so the only people around to heed her call are the maids. “Coming, miss--”

_BANG._

She shoots straight up as the sound of a door slamming open echoes throughout the house. Her eyes widen in terror as she realizes who the two voices are, murmuring frantically amongst themselves as they make their way through the foyer.

“She hasn’t appeared at All Saints for days, we’ve got a legal permit to search--”

“Kym, we cannot simply break into Sinclair Manor and use our power like this _where are you going, hello ma’am--”_

Lauren bangs the door open of her own room, almost tripping on the edge of her nightgown as she rushes for the railing, auburn hair obscuring her vision as she hurriedly glances down to see Kym and Will talking to Lucy. The maid looks somewhere between in the aftermath of a heart attack and being charmed by a gentleman. The lieutenant looks like she’s seconds away from busting down another door, and the captain has already turned on his signature smile, tipping his cap up. But he’s clearly aggravated.

“I’m here!” she shouts, and all three of them look up. Kym’s eyes widen in delight, and Will sighs in relief.

Lucy stammers. “There you are, miss, I--”

_“I’m coming up!”_ Kym declares, waving her hands. _“Are you okay?!”_

“I’m fine!” she hollers back, which is the farthest from the truth. “Did you break in?! Is there damage - Will, _what--?”_

“She insisted,” the blonde says, gesturing wildly to Kym’s retreating figure up the stairs. He quickly turns to Lucy, bowing before he goes off to chase his subordinate. “Would you mind not mentioning this to the Chief? My deepest apologies.”

“No problem at all, sir.” Lucy’s face is a wonderful shade of vermillion as her old friend flashes another smile, breaking off to chase after the blue-haired woman. Lauren barely gets a chance to turn to the right before Kym is there, cupping her cheeks fiercely. Her hazel eyes inspect her up and down.

“You don’t feel feverish.”

“No. And I haven’t contracted the Crimson,” Lauren mutters, but it comes out more like _nuh I haben contwacted Crimson_ through her mouth. She pats Kym’s hands lightly. “What is this? As a medical professional, I’m disappointed in you,” Lauren pouts, removing her grasp from her face. “You didn’t even bother to get masks.”

“If you were in quarantine, the house would be marked,” the lieutenant reminds her. But the adrenaline has seeped from her gaze; Kym looks more serious than she’s ever been.

“What’s wrong?”

Lauren scratches her arm. “Nothing.”

“There you are,” Will pants, storming up next to Kym. “You’re gonna have to pay for the damage.”

“Not if I fix it on the way back.” She holds up a screwdriver.

He sighs, but turns to Lauren, frowning. “You weren’t responding to our calls. And no one at All Saints knew why you hadn’t shown up for work.”

She frowns. “You went looking for me?”

Will laughs a bit. “Is that so hard to believe?”

She tries for a smile, but it fades. “It’s...it’s nothing. Trust me.”

Kym steps forward, eyes trained on hers. “Do you not want to talk about it?”

Lauren shakes her head.

When neither of them press further, she breathes out a sigh of relief internally. What they do know of her past is far and few in between - yet, seem to get that there are some boundaries they can’t cross. Kym loops an arm around her shoulders, and when she starts rattling off what’s been going on at the APD and how Lauren would’ve put half the IU idiots to shame, _they all think they’ve gotten trails, but they don’t, and they’re stupid unlike you,_ with Will chiming in all the way back to her room, she’s never felt more grateful in her life for company.

Even if it is only temporary, as the image of a man with shockingly blue eyes pops into her eyes. 

_Your choice._

She grits her teeth.

Sooner or later, she’s going to have to move forward.

Sooner or later, she’s going to have to choose.

____

  
  


For once, the sun’s peeking out in broad daylight. Will stretches out his arms briefly, letting the warmth of it wash over him. Kym slowly walks over to him, footsteps barely making a noise on the concrete as she slides next to him, a grin on her face.

“Boo,” she whispers in his ear, and he practically jolts back, shocked.

_“Again?!”_

“You never catch me,” she taunts, sticking her tongue out as the two of them stand side by side, watching the sky. “Shouldn’t you have learned by now, captain?”

“I need to put a bell on you, _lieutenant,”_ he grumbles, but his tone isn’t angry.

“You always say that,” Kym says, yawning as she watches him adjust his captain’s cap. It’s a bit odd seeing him with it, when nearly two weeks ago he was in the same uniform as her. Now he looks a bit taller, although it might just be the outfit speaking. Neat cravat tucked into a navy and gold jacket, with a darker cap on top - it makes him look professional; more professional than before. She looks down at the lieutenant badge on her own coat, and when she looks back up, skin crawling with the sensation of someone looking at her, she finds him there, nose scrunched up a bit.

“What are you staring at me for?”

“Nothing.” And then: “I wanted a new hat, too.”

He groans lightly. “It’s the captain’s hat, not just a _hat_ \--”

“And you get the cool hat when I don’t? Unfair.”

“Are you serious.” Will’s left eye twitches. “You want a ‘cool hat’ that badly.”

“It’s not like you’re cool enough to deserve the cool hat.”

He mutters something like _I’m gonna kill you_ under his breath, but that makes her move even closer, prod the already-deep thorn in his side. “I heard that.”

“You hear everything,” he replies curtly, but his tone has softened. 

“One of the many reasons you keep me around despite all odds,” Kym says, knowing with a glint in her eyes she’s won this round of their banter. She glances down at the pocketwatch in her pocket, forgetting for a moment it doesn’t work - even after years of it frozen on _that mark of time -_ and pulls her suddenly serious gaze away from it before Will can notice, averting it to a clock on one of the streets. “It’s four hours until we visit the Circus Royale. Think you can keep up with me then?”

“Hopefully so,” he hums, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Odd they’d ask for extra security tonight. They never have before.”

“Do you suspect something?”

“I suspect _something,”_ Will mutters, and both of them fall silent, but it’s an easy nothingness that bobs between them. The longer she looks at him, the more clouded over his gaze gets.

He’s drifting off again.

“Captain,” she taunts. “Will. _Williame._ Hello?”

No response. She frowns.

“You’ll lead the patrol, right? In person?” Kym looks over at him, the two of them standing together side by side. No matter how she tries to get his attention, Will keeps staring off into the distance, almost as if distracted by something only he can see. When she drifts closer, the sun burns red against his skin, setting his blonde hair on fire. He looks like a statue, almost. But statues don’t radiate warmth when you stand too close, or smell like coffee and pine trees, or stare at you with piercing ocean eyes.

She realizes with a jolt she’s somehow closed the gap between them and tugged on the sleeve of his uniform. 

“Yes.” His voice comes out clipped, like he’s trying to restrain himself from more words spilling out of his mouth. “Yes, I will. Don’t worry about it, Kym. Unless--” A slightly teasing lilt enters his voice. “--you were worried about me not being there?”

“Don’t push it,” she shoots back, nudging him playfully. But a tension lingers between them when they seperate, almost as if a thread has wound around them and doesn’t do well to being torn apart.

____

  
  


Artemis has finished powdering her hands with white dust. Morpheus is readying the hoops. Hecate’s most likely off in her tent, and the rest of the cast is probably with Athena and Eurydice, practicing the rest of the ensemble show tonight. Which leaves her with the rest of the cast that _is_ in the main tent, a pressure that makes her twirl the two staffs in her grip, ready the wick for the flame she’ll be swirling around tonight. Belladonna’s already rehearsed the show thrice beforehand, but being around more people than she’d like makes her self conscious about speaking.

Not that she’d ever admit she’s disastrous at small talk. She lights a match, setting it to one side of a staff. Fire ignites, roaring in the air, and she twirls the staff experimentally, watching it catch the midnight light of the sky catch it, sending sparks.

“Nice going, Hestia!” shouts Artemis from across the grounds, halfway through a split mid-air, pigtails swinging. She grins in response, doing an extra twirl on her heel and spinning around for show.

“Alright, that does the last of them,” Morpheus says, stepping back from his hoops. He turns to Belladonna, eyeing her fire. “Hestia - would you mind getting Apollo for the piano set-up? We’re not sure where he wants to move.”

“Isn’t it usually--” She pinches the fire with her fingers, extinguishing it, gesturing at a vague spot on the ground, “--there?”

“Yeah, but we’re changing up positions for tonight. Athena’s orders. Something about keeping the audience on their toes or whatever.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Would you mind going to find him?”

“Are you sure he won’t just wander back in alone?”

“He usually doesn’t...er, wander off like this,” Morpheus admits. 

She has half a mind to bite out a retort and cock her hip. But this isn’t the Phantom Scythe. “He’s not that much of a talker. The mysterious, silent, brooding type. You know how it goes.” Belladonna wiggles her fingers. “I’m sure he’ll return.”

“Hestia.” Morpheus claps his hands together. “Please.”

A laugh leaves her mouth, high-pitched, slightly annoyed. “It’s not like Athena’s going to kill him.”

Morpheus raises a brow.

_So it’s like that._

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes as she stabs the two staffs into a container. “I’ll go looking for him.”

She doesn’t bother responding to Morpheus’s profuse thank-yous. Belladonna’s already walking out the tent, and the second she slips out, her smile fades and is instantly replaced by a scowl filled with vitriol. The sound of her heels grows louder, the sharp points digging into gravel, and she barely looks at the crowd of people already bustling past her. Already the tents are bustling with energy, streaming lights hung above, the scent of cotton candy and popcorn wafting throughout, raucous chatter coming from kids and adults alike. It’s at times like these she truly wishes to become the fire, and tell them all that none of this comes without a price. Become poison in their veins and punish the undeserving, the soft. They don’t know what it’s like. They never have.

_Oh, my sweet nightshade. This is a man’s world…_

Where could he have even gone? Why is she even bothering to look for _Apollo?_ The blonde has been even less friendly than she has, the asshole.

Belladonna snorts as she nears the end of the crowd. He probably went to one of the less crowded areas in Nightingale Park under the pretense of ‘fresh air’ or some other crap that’ll spout from his mouth. She tugs off her diadem, shivering a bit as the night air peaks against her skin. Out here, it’s almost empty, and the trees are everywhere except for the occassional streetlight. It’s a maze of winding paths, and when she does find him, it’s by accident.

She’s never seen him without a Messenger mask on. Or without a blindfold on.

This is the first.

Rafael Hawkes bears an uncanny resemblance to the god whose name he bears like a mantle. He’s all dark golden hair and ocean eyes, with light scruff around his chin and jaw. Well-built, tall, significantly taller than her. Definitely older than her, still in his costume, a patterned blue-and-black vest over a white blouse. She, too, is still in hers, but the corset and pants beneath the skirt and jewelry are the same items that stain whenever she’s on duty. It’s almost fascinating watching someone act so detached from his alternate identity - not like the way she is, wearing both Hestia and Belladonna on opposite sides of her heart, playing with dangerous things around the clock. And both girls have wounds. Scars. Bruises branded on invisible threads.

She wonders how big his are, to have taken up a Messenger position and Circus Royale position both. Threaten her in the Carmine Carmellia and talk to her in polite tones during rehearsal.

She wonders what it would be like to see those eyes narrow in anger. She wonders if what lies underneath could be just as poisonous as her own heart. She needs that answer. Craves it, even.

So she does what she always does: makes a bad decision and runs straight into the lion’s maw of danger.

_“Messenger.”_

He is standing by a bench, alone, framed by a streetlight. Rafael turns around. His expression is neutral, but in a flash, it turns into one of subtle anxiousness. 

“Don’t say things like that here,” he warns, walking towards her. They’re both by the streetlight now, framed by a halo of light by the bright bulb above. It makes them look like two normal passerby enjoying a quiet night. It’s almost poetic irony; when both of them are hardly normal, and the night will hardly be quiet tonight.

“Because you never know who’s watching?” she asks.

“Because you and I both know each other’s true identities, Belladonna Davenport.” Rafael’s eyes darken in warning, and he crosses his arms. But still, he doesn’t seem to react to her taunting lilt and sharp glances like anyone else should - ward them off, or flinch back from them. Instead, he takes them in, absorbs them, deflects with honesty. He’s not annoyed. He’s not teasing her back. It shouldn’t aggravate her. It still does.

“It’s _Hestia_ here, if we’re following rules, _Apollo.”_ She refuses to back down, still smirking. “Hypocrite much?”

“What are you doing here?”

She cocks a brow. “I came to _fetch you._ Morpheus needs you. Set-up or whatever. Although I do find it interesting that you’re here. All alone, by a bench, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re usually insufferably boring and next to a piano when you’re not barely speaking at rehearsals and meetings, and don’t even say an interesting word to any of us.”

He considers this for a second. “And you thought taunting me with that fact tonight would bring something out of me?”

“Well, it’s doing something, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

Alright, so her usual tactics aren’t working. She hasn’t felt this thrilled by something in a long time. He’s a puzzle that can’t be solved, a glass that can’t be shattered, and so, Belladonna’s eyes flit down to his wrists. They’re exposed, although his hands are gloved. On one wrist lies the signature Circus Royale tattoo, and on the other, a black tattoo that looks like it resembles wings in flight. The wings are new. That much she can tell. “That looks like fresh ink.”

“It’s none of your business.”

She squints, her smirk growing wider. “Hawk wings, hmm?”

Rafael frowns deeper. “I said it’s none of your business.”

“You know, I heard your little brother’s leading patrol _tonight—”_

_Slam._

She registers the cold metal of the streetlight too late. Rafael is hovering above her in all his height, but he’s not quite angry yet. No, that doesn’t do justice to his expression. He’s absolutely _terrified,_ and that makes him look more irate than she’s ever seen him be. Belladonna knows he’s about five years older than her, yes, but she’s never been one to respect formalities.

_“Do not,”_ he breathes, _“mention my brother.”_

Ah.

So he’s soft-hearted still underneath all that viciousness.

It’s an opportunity to break him. She’s done this a thousand times before: let her victims think they have the upper hand, and then strike, and watch them suffer underneath the venom of her blade - or her words. 

But she doesn’t, not yet.

There’s something about him that’s different and she is determined to find out _why._

“I could kill him for you,” she says softly.

“Don’t you dare, Belladonna,” Rafael warns. But the warning in his tone isn’t out of disgust. He isn’t disgusted with what she does; he’s seen it all as a Messenger. It’s oddly refreshing. They’re monsters, both of them, wearing human masks and covering up their hearts with blades and inks.

_“Hestia,_ Apollo.” She crosses her arms, tilting her head up to look at him more closely.

He still doesn’t give. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” It’s true. “I just find you interesting. Like a puzzle. A girl needs her entertainment.”

“Is that what I am to you?”

“Very much so.”

“Your sense of entertainment leaves much to be desired.” It’s then he backs away from her, the calm back on his face. It’s infuriating more to her than anything. He should be the one off-balance. Now she’s veering towards an edge, and the ring of the bell in the air is the only thing that steadies her.

“Clock’s ticking.” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, waving to him as she walks off, not giving him a second glance as she tosses one torch off her shoulder, hips swaying. 

“Follow me or not. I don’t particularly care about either option. See you later, sun god.”

He doesn’t reply.

_____

  
  


He isn’t surprised to see her. He isn’t surprised to see her in formal dress, either, because he’s in the same. It would be funny if Lauren weren’t literally perched on the doorstep of death incarnate. Kieran takes in her blue ensemble with measured calculation - simple yet elegant, a wrap dress with a high collar that shows off her arms and long neck, paired with pearls on her lobes - and nods, once. It had barely taken five hours for the letter she sent to this address to return with two brief sentences: _Meet at seven. Business formal. We are discussing business, after all._

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I know you have.” Lauren’s voice is clipped. She hopes he can’t detect her nervousness. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Kieran holds the door open wider in response. “After you, my lady.”

She snorts, but enters the foyer anyhow. The last time she was at Cainhurst Hall, she was half-delirious from pain in her leg, but now, she scans her surroundings with vigor. It’s all the same, but what she hasn’t noticed before is the sheer lack of electricity in the chandelier lights. It would explain the candelabras everywhere. When Lauren turns to her left, Kieran is there, always in black, like the living shadow of darkness he is, looking directly at her.

“A pence for your thoughts, doctor.”

“Do you even have electricity?”

“Ah.” A small grin hitches on his mouth. “For the appliances, yes. Unfortunately, we can’t run much for lighting, for fear of being discovered through the electrical grid.”

Lauren looks away. “Smart.”

“You mean that.”

“In the worst of ways.” She glances back at him. “I want to discuss your offer. This doesn’t mean I’m accepting it. You have information that I need.”

He ponders on this for a while. “And why would I give you that information if you aren’t willing to strike a deal with me?”

She’s come prepared. Lauren pulls her hand out of a hidden pocket in the dress, skirt swaying, and holds out her open palm. Kieran’s eyes widen as he takes in the label on the vial she’s holding. Within it, a glossy substance swirls, almost iridescent.

_ANTIBODY COLLECTION 5, MILD CRIMSON DEATH INFECTION. PARACEL USE ONLY._

“I have access to laboratories,” she says, “and there’s much more where this came from. It’s not a panacea, but it’s a start. And it only works for mild cases. I’ll explain it to you _if_ you give me answers.”

“Paracels experimented on this?”

“And I worked with the directors to _oversee_ the Paracels.” She cocks her head. Waiting for an answer. 

Slowly, his grin turns languid. “So the good doctor isn’t really all that good, is she?”

“What a revelation,” Lauren mutters, rolling her eyes. “Are you going to answer my questions now?”

“Bossy, doctor.” She makes a noise of protest as he offers his arm out, one foot on the bottom of the enormous stairs. “Dinner first. _And_ answers, as soon as you don’t look half-starved.”

“Screw you,” she grumbles under her breath, leaping onto the stairs and charging after him, batting away his arm.

____

  
  


“Tell me about the Crimson Death.”

Lauren looks up from her water glass. “You know about the Crimson Death.”

“Wrong. I want to know what you know.” Kieran raises a brow as he swirls his own glass, leaning back in his seat. “From a doctor’s perspective, the entire wave of disease suddenly coming onto Ardhalis must have had _some_ origin we commoners don’t know about.” His eyes flit down to her uneaten stew. “And you haven’t touched your food.”

She ignores the pang in her stomach as she sips her water.

“Have you ever thought about the fact that it would be virtually useless if I killed you _over dinner?”_ The Leader’s brows twist. “Seriously. I’m not putting arsenic into your bouillabaisse. It would be a pity to lose my answers.”

“Good to know you value a woman’s brains,” she retorts, but looks down at the seafood below her again. “And I don’t like bouillabaisse.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would caviar be more to your liking?”

The taunt digs into her skin. “Do you want your answers or not?”

His patience is starting to wear thin. So is hers. It’s already started showing. The longer they keep this seemingly innocent banter up, the more the true lethality between them grows. She sees how he looks at her: underneath that fascination is a simultaneous revulsion. And why wouldn’t it be there? They are from opposite words, opposite as opposites can be. A girl born in the light with a silver spoon in her mouth, who in his eyes, has seemingly had to work for nothing. And he, a boy shrouded in darkness, given nothing, who takes everything with a blade in his hands.

Lauren props her chin on one hand while rummaging through the bread basket. “It started with the Blood Plague. In XX01. Waves of it came and went. I’d heard of physicians studying it. It lasted more than a decade, claiming more lives every time a variation of it returned. Viruses evolve,” she says grimly. “They’re never the same. Eventually, the people studying it were able to chalk it up to a reason and had a vaccine for it - a parasite in the water. Dracunculiansis.” 

She’s gotten so caught up in history that she’s forgotten to address his stare. He doesn’t let it on obviously, but his confusion is just palpable.

“Water flea.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” he purrs, and she nearly slams the bread basket into his face.

“It ends in XX17. Fast forward twenty years or so,” she continues, clearing her throat as she starts on her second demi-baguette. “The Crimson Death appears. No one calls it that. A couple people pass, most people survive, it’s called a variant of the flu. No one catches it until XX23. And in XX27--” Lauren’s hand clenches around her glass.

“The epidemic,” he finishes slowly.

“The epidemic,” she repeats. “We...we believe it’s a variant of the Blood Plague. But no one has worked out a solution yet.”

Dylan had died in XX17. In the aftermath of the people’s victory against disease.

If only he could see her now.

Would he be proud?

Would be be _ashamed--_

She bites down on her lip, hard. “I believe that fulfills my half of the contract.”

“So it does.” Kieran loosens his tie, popping open a button on his shirt. Lauren would’ve made a comment about covering up were it not for the seriousness in his eyes. “I suspect you want to know about your parents first and foremost.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you about them.”

And _that_ is the last straw.

She stands up, her chair screeching back. “You _dare--”_ Lauren clenches her fists, hissing a breath through her teeth. “You make me give you everything, and then you break our deal. You _dare?!”_

“You didn’t even let me finish,” Kieran says darkly, voice low and dangerously baritone like salt scraping against wood. “I cannot tell you about them because I did not _know them.”_

Lauren halts in her tracks. He laughs. _Laughs,_ throwing his head back in the face of her fury.

“Did you think I would’ve been old enough to lead a criminal organization with them under my command? Rachel and Alexander Sinclair operated in XX17. I’m not sure if you know this, but I’m not exactly an immortal unaging being, despite my looks.”

She’s silent as he gets up, pacing over to where she stands. “They joined because my predecessor toted a cause. A silent, albeit charming one. Social justice. What the early Phantom Scythe - or should I say _Snapdragon -_ was originally was in fact a socialist group. Non-violent. Controlled by one Leader, with his twelve to eleven Apostles and various Messengers to spread the word. We were controlled. Organized. Recruited many to the cause for a better future. And when my predecessor discovered non-violence didn’t exactly convince the royals…” Kieran trails off, inspecting the firelight of the candelabra. “Well, you can guess what happened then.”

“How’d you become the Leader, then?” Lauren demands.

Something flashes in his eyes. “Line of succession.” It’s a clear signal: _don’t ask why they chose me._

“They...they weren’t non-violent,” she insists, back on the topic of the Phantom Scythe. “Allendale happened while they were still in the Snapdragon - Phantom Scythe, whatever.”

“Most likely they wanted out of it, if the records are true,” he ponders. “An operative was ordered to drive them around and assassinate them. Yes?”

Her mind flashes back to a report of her parents tumbling over a cliff with the car in tow. “Yes.”

“Then that was the turning point. And that was what happened and still happens to traitors.”

“Still,” she says. Lauren is breathing shallowly.

“Doctor,” he says warningly, meeting her gaze head-on. “It is not all fun and games in the Phantom Scythe.”

“I never thought as such.”

“Good. You shouldn’t have. I offer you a position as the medical head, but I cannot offer you all the answers you seek immediately. I can offer you protection, but if you decide to go charging into the field with nothing but a syringe in hand, I can’t do anything about that. Don’t fool me. I know that look in your eyes.” He draws closer.

“It’s anger. And,” Kieran tilts his head, “more than that.”

Lauren stays silent as he speaks once more. “There are constant rebellions. My Apostles seek to undermine me. Assassination attempts. And my recruits are dying. I cannot control all of it at once.”

“And yet,” she says, shaking with fury, now boiling to the surface, “you murder, and decieve, and cheat, and steal.”

Kieran laughs mirthlessly. “We’re back on this topic, aren’t we? Moral qualms?”

“We’re back on the topic of _what would make you think in your right mind_ that I, a savior of lives, would team up with you.” Lauren slams her hand down onto the table, refusing to look away from his burning gaze. “Even if you advocate for a better cause, a better future, a way to save your people? This city? What would make you think _I_ would team up with someone like _you?!”_

“Are you done?”

“What?!”

“Go on, then.” He’s looking down at her with darkly-lidded eyes, for once, the smile wiped from his face. This is his true darkness, one she’s seen in battle a thousand times over. “Keep going. Boast about your moral superiority when in truth, we both know you’re here for one thing and one thing alone. Killing me wouldn’t undo your ghosts, however. And neither would killing my predecessor, or his predecessor, or the predecessor that orchestrated Allendale. But perhaps my body count will suffice alone,” he says, sweeping his arms wide. “Would you like to know, doctor? I didn’t orchestrate Allendale, but I sure as hell orchestrated Hanbury. Amity. The accident on Juniper Street near the teller’s bank. Sank a ship carrying two hundred passengers. You think I stopped to wallow in my sorrows then?”

She’s so blind with rage that it nearly puts a knife - a real one - in her hand. But she won’t let him get to her. She can’t. If Lauren lets him win, it’s over for her, and she’ll be stuck in square one again: a dog with all her bark and no bite. The anger sharpens her resolve.

“You know,” she says, a sharp grin spreading over her face, “you’re quite aware that you’re a monster for someone who doesn’t like hearing that word. Do you know that?” she breathes, stepping forward. “So there’s no use in using a double-edged sword against me. I don’t need to be riled up by you while you simultaneously hurt yourself. I already hate you. Understood? I hate you, and that hasn’t changed ever since we got here. _I hate you._ And yes, maybe I am selfish. Maybe you think I’m conniving, and wicked, and not the good doctor at all. As long as this plague is gone from this country and I see justice enacted, I don’t care precisely what you think of me. So - and I’ll say this for the first and last time - _fuck off.”_

They’re both breathing heavily. But he’s the one to step back first, raking a hand through his bun.

“Say the word,” he says, after nearly a minute of silence.

She doesn’t, inhaling deeply.

He is a monster made of nightmares. But something is quivering in her chest, once dead, now watered with the slightest promise of vengeance, and now it roars alive, a slithering dragon demanding penance. And it cannot be silenced.

_“Doctor--”_

“I still hate you,” she pants, “so you’re going to make me three promises.”

He frowns, but doesn’t speak as she rattles them off. “You’re going to share all of your information with me, and I will on my end as well. What’s yours is mine. Two - you let me keep my occupation at All Saints. You will let me continue with work on the vaccination team. I am not yours.”

“Scandalous.”

Lauren grits her teeth as she continues. “Three - you order the killings to stop. I don’t care if it’s because of the royals breathing down your back or teenagers pelting eggs at your windows. Make them stop.”

“The first two are possible. The third is going to take an even bigger threat,” he says, raising an eyebrow. Waiting for her response. 

Will she be willing to save millions of lives by sacrificing, perhaps, a couple more?

“Do whatever you need to do,” she says, heart in her throat as she whirls around to leave.

____

  
  


She finds Rafael Hawkes, once again, by accident.

And this time, in the middle of a scene she does _not_ want to witness.

A policeman is yelling at him. With slow mirth, she realizes it’s not just any policeman. His captain’s hat glimmers in the light, and Rafael’s tense posture around him is something she hasn’t seen before. It’s almost funny, to see such a tall man retreating further into his shell. She wipes the blade she’d been toting around - apparently Tim Sake had decided to attend her performance and had barely escaped her poison - and sneaks behind a tree, catching wind of their conversation. 

“You’ve been here all this while,” the blonde man shouts, “and you didn’t even bother to tell me?!”

Rafael still says nothing.

Belladonna smirks quietly. She wonders how she didn’t put together the pieces sooner - the same hair, the same imperious brow, the straight nose, despite Rafael being at least six years older than the man in front of him. His _brother_ in front of him.

“I am sorry, Will.”

So it is true, then.

William Hawkes is Rafael Hawkes’ brother, indeed. And Rafael, apparently, is a runaway. She files this information away for later. It’ll be interesting blackmail if she needs it in the future. The younger brother will be an interesting target if needed, even.

“Sorry?!” The captain is beside himself with rage, tears in his eyes. “You - you run away without explanation? And you say sorry, and you expect me to _forgive you?”_

“I don’t.”

“What--” Will clenches his fist, looking down. There’s nothing he _can say._ Belladonna almost feels sorry for the pathetic thing. 

_People abandon people all the time. There’s nothing you can do over it. Stop being such a whining toddler._

He turns on his heel and leaves without a second thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a flash of sapphire hair - a smaller woman - following him silently into the darkness. 

When she’s made sure Rafael is alone, standing in the shadows, it’s only then she slips out from behind the tree, stepping behind him silently. He turns around before she can catch him off guard, however, his hand wrapping around her wrist with force. She startles back a bit. The pressure is warm against her cold skin.

“Leave me,” he insists, clearly angry despite his false calm. 

“I don’t think so,” she says, sneering. “Don’t you want company after your brother abandoned you?”

“I abandoned him,” he corrects. His sudden sadness makes her want to vomit. 

“Stop feeling guilty,” she snaps. “You left, you left. You can’t take it back. Deal with it and suck it up, or I’ll have to do the worst one of these days and end you in an alleyway when you’re off Messenger duty.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then make me stop,” she taunts.

He merely shoots her a warning glance, but she throws it off. And yet, when she thinks about killing him, she ponders over keeping him alive, and thinks _that_ would be much more interesting to see.

Bringing down a Messenger with police connections is more than anyone could ask for. She’s in control this time around, after all. A Lord doesn’t bow or scrape to anyone. She takes what she wants.

Kieran had made sure that she would.

Getting him close wouldn’t be hard, nor would gaining his trust. Belladonna’s had her fair share of relationships in the past, from women to men both. Mostly women, granted, but experience has led her to know when and where a relationship’s worth pursuing. She picks them by damage scale: which one will be the most likely to ruin her or not. 

This one is no different.

He stares at her, raising his brows. “Still searching for entertainment?”

“You should talk less,” she growls, and tugs him forward, drawing him into a harsh kiss that tastes like bitter clove and smoke. When she tugs away, it’s a question: an offering. If he pushes her away, she’ll have nothing to do with him after this, and they won’t crash into each other and fire no holds barred. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Hestia,” he says into her mouth, and his eyes are looking right into hers, and the cold air is whistling around them, and she watches without doing anything - _anything_ at all - as he reaches up to tug on her bottom lip with his index, the answer to her question.

They collide once more, and it is harder and everlasting this time.

He tastes sweeter than any poison.

____

“Will!”

He isn’t answering.

_“Will!”_ Kym screams louder into the dark. He won’t respond. It’s as if her superior has gone deaf, hurtling through the forest with no heed for direction, his mask tight in his hands. She curses under her breath, running after him, shoving aside the thorny branches of the undergrowth. When she’s left panting with her hands on her knees, the forest he’d run through is gone. Will is now sitting under a streetlight in a snowy clearing, hunched over.

_Oh captain, my captain,_ she thinks blearily. _You exhaust me._

She trots over. He still doesn’t move, still as ice.

“Will,” she says softly. “Come back with me.”

He inhales sharply. 

“Will—”

“Just a minute, Kym.”

“Now, I know you don’t mean that,” she teases. But her smile slips. “Come on. Please. It’s cold.”

“You want my jacket?”

“Don’t try me, captain.” She crouches down in front of him. With his head bowed and the warm light from the lamp above him spilling over him, he looks less like a statue then - well, _warmth._

She realizes then she wouldn’t know what to do without it.

“I had a sister,” she begins slowly, and Will looks up slightly. Blue to hazel. “Daena. She was so strong and confident and bossy. Even more of a ruckus than I was,” she admits, laughing. “Had hair like dark rivers. We got mistaken for each other a lot.”

“You were identical?”

“Except for this,” she chirps, pointing to her beauty mark. “Baba and Mama always used to joke that it was like handling four kids instead of two. Always so energetic around the house. I loved her.” Kym pauses.

“I love her.”

Will looks at her like he’s seen the first star of the endless night. “I know.”

She sucks in a breath, willing herself to continue. “We were so alike I used to put on makeup over the mark and we’d swap places. She would go to school in my place while I’d be at the market looking for candies. I would pretend to be her at family gatherings and she would huddle upstairs with her books. And then—” Her voice warbles. “And then Allendale happened, and I wasn’t fast enough, and she was gone.”

He is deathly still.

She doesn’t tell him about the aftermath. How she would walk down the streets with her dark hair woven into a braid, strands of blue obscuring her mark from the side, and how the vendors in the neighborhood where she went to pick up groceries would call _xiaojie, xiaojie, Daena,_ and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She doesn’t tell him she cut her hair a week after Allendale, cutting it so short people would look at her and never remind her - or the mirror she looked at - of her sister after again. None of them had a right to her heart.

None of them had a right to her love.

“I know he’s a jerk. Your brother.” Kym fiddles with the snow, drawing a miniature line in it. “I’m not asking you to forgive him. I’m just asking you to accept what he did. Otherwise one day it might be too late.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t know how.”

“You’ve got to try, captain.” She snorts. “That’s part of the reason why trying comes before doing.”

He sighs. But he doesn’t object.

“Come on.” She holds out her hand. “Come with me.”

Will looks up. Slowly, he stands, putting his hat back on, dusting snow off his legs. And more surprisingly, he takes her hand, and doesn’t let go, and she lets this electric shock of their skin together ricochet through her.

And they walk out together. 

  
  


____

She’s in the hallway when he finds her.

Lauren, for once, is standing all alone. In the back of Cainhurst, near the greenhouse, shrouded in evening light. The sapphire dress she wears in practically a beacon. He finds her with ease - he always has. It had been easy to find her at All Saints, and in that alleyway, too. The world doesn’t forget someone like her too easily. It leaves a mark wherever she goes. She is like the last ray of sunlight in a coffin.

He wonders what she could’ve been, if not for all of this.

“Lauren.”

She whips around, and for a split second he thinks she’s actually going to get out a knife and stab him - but the doctor doesn’t react to only her first name being called, and drops her hand, bowing her head.

“You’re still here.”

“It’s late,” comes out her voice, strained and thin. “I can’t leave now.”

“There are rooms.”

“I just want to be left alone,” she bites out. Her lack of bitterness scares him. Where is the fighter? Where is the tempest of a woman he has known all this while? Where is the girl who attacked him so boldly with nothing but a fake knife and her own rage? It makes him, for a split second, long for a sketchbook.

But he hasn’t touched one in years.

Perhaps he needs to get her anger going, after all.

“Think fast.”

“What—”

He moves. In a way that momentarily makes her think he’s attacking her, but not enough to hurt her - and it’s enough to send her careening into him, pinning him against the wall. Her gold eyes are blown out, and she looks at him with something that’s more akin to crushing sadness than fury.

He’s miscalculated.

“Don’t.” Lauren’s lip trembles. _Trembles._ “Just leave me alone. Stop whatever you think you’re doing.”

“Are you broken that easily?” he asks quietly. Somehow, they always end up this way. Her on top of him, ready to be the killer of a killer. 

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re not this.”

“I said _leave me,”_ she says with a punctuated growl. Suddenly her ears perk up, a sliver of curiosity entering her gaze. 

“That smell…”

“Flowers,” he blurts out. “You’re hardly hallucinating.”

“Where—”

“You’re by the greenhouse.”

Lauren twists to the right, startling at the sight of glass panes and shrubbery peeking out of an open door. Water is running from the fountain within; and the metal pipes that keep the hydroponics section of the miniature garden are whirring too, this late at night. 

He looks at her, silently waiting. “I’m going to go for a walk, if you wouldn’t mind getting off me now.”

She doesn’t speak as she lets go of his collar, brushing her hands on her dress. 

“I’ve got nothing better to do anyhow.”

A silent concession. Kieran lets her go first, wander into the unknown. He’s paced the garden more times than he can count, trailed fingers over peonies and geraniums, but always stayed by the cluster of purple hyacinths that grow in the middle of it all. Lightning bugs zip around the area, and she treads in front of him cautiously, golden eyes wide, soaking it all in. He’s almost amused by her fascination.

Her breath catches as she catches sight of the hyacinths. Kieran takes this as a sign to step next to her. 

“They mean sorrow,” he murmurs. “Or, if we’re being specific, one’s plea for forgiveness.”

Lauren’s ponytail carves scarlet in the air as she looks over at him.

“I thought the Phantom Scythe hated the symbol of the royal family.”

He hesitates a bit before talking. “You were a former detective, were you not?”

“You mentioned Hanbury--”

“Put together the pieces, then,” Kieran says softly, and when he sees it click together, she hardly looks disgusted. Just full of rage. Always gunning for more.

“What happened?”

“The Purple Hyacinth wasn’t needed any longer,” he says curtly. “A Leader was.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it doesn’t matter whether I don’t or do. Because it hardly matters if I stay silent,” he says, bitterly smirking, “but it matters if the people I control _are.”_

“Are you smiling at yourself?” Lauren snorts.

“Of course I am. I’m hilarious.”

“Sure you are.” The doctor lowers herself onto a bench, holding her knees to her chest. He still stands next to her, but instead of looming, merely keeps watch over her body. Kieran never realized how small she was in comparison to him until now - she’s not exactly short, but her build is delicate, and at one point would’ve been toned, but has long lost that part of her. 

“Are you going to leave?”

“No,” she mutters into her dress. “I’m going to stay. Don’t leave.”

Kieran sighs lightly. “As you wish, doctor.”

The snow continues to fall.


End file.
